


Renegade

by cms52990



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Baked goods too, Barista!Dean, Coffee Shops, M/M, Sidekick!Meg, Superheroes, Supervillain!Castiel, Supervillains, reporter!sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4285254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cms52990/pseuds/cms52990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody in Amber City dislikes Supers more than Dean Winchester.  But even he has to celebrate when the Renegade, a notorious Supervillain, is blasted out of the sky by one of his own bombs, leaving the Archangel, a Superhero, to carry the day.  But when, weeks later, a blank-faced, blue-eyed homeless man named Castiel takes up residence behind Dean's coffee shop, Dean is inadvertently set down the path towards uncovering the true extent of his city's corruption - and learning that their Supervillains and Superheroes may not be so villainous or heroic as they are painted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Charlie!”

He could _see_ his friend twitch at the shout, spilling the roll of dimes she’d been in the process of breaking open all over the countertop.  The chaotic clatter didn’t really matter - every eye in the coffee shop was already drawn to Dean, who was storming out of the kitchen like some sort of wrathful, vengeful spirit.  

Charlie was quick, though - she had already grabbed the remote control and tossed it across the shop to one of their regulars.  Dorothy caught it with swooping grace and waved it at Dean, a smirking smile on her face.

“Come on, Dean,” Charlie whined.  “Just this once.”

“I said _no_.”

“But it’s the fight of the decade!  Magneto versus Xavier-level here!  But without, like, the homoerotic tension.”

“Charlie -”

“Although honestly, I don’t know their lives, so -”

“ _Charlie_!”

The woman sighed.  “Dorothy.”

“You’re no fun,” Dorothy pouted, slinging the remote back to Charlie, who promptly muted the TV.  Groans of disappointment echoed from every corner of the coffee shop, and Dean bit back the urge to tell each and every one of them to stuff their anger where the sun had a damn hard time getting at.  

He should have expected the mutiny.  Deja Brew had a very specific clientele - those inclined more towards LARP-ing and “X-Files” fangirling than Serious Coffee Appreciation.  The walls were covered with vintage movie posters of obscure B-, C-, and Z-movies, most of which had been salvaged from the local pawn shop.  The high-class memorabilia in Plexiglass display cases had all come from Charlie’s personal stash, graciously donated in the name of “atmospheric aid” (as she’d put it).  The coffee equipment was all Dean’s, and he’d chipped in for most of the kitchen stuff too, since Charlie shouldn’t be allowed within twenty feet of anything more complicated than a cheese grater.

It had all been on purpose, of course.  Dean had been into enough spartan, uncomfortable coffee shops in Amber City to come up with a list of Things I’d Rather Die Than Have In My Own Shop long enough to wipe his ass with for the rest of his upright life.  Together, he and Charlie had created a cozy, warm refuge for geeks from far and wide, many of whom came once and seemed to never leave.  Deja Brew had a way of creating regulars out of casual caffeine-seekers.

So yeah.  The mutiny wasn’t exactly out of left field.  But still.  It was a damn mutiny.  And Dean had one rule - okay, maybe several, but there was one iron-clad rule -

“I _told_ you I didn’t want to see that crap on the TV in here,” he hissed to Charlie.

“It’s not bothering anyone,” she whispered back.

“It’s bothering _me_.”

He glanced up at the screen in time to see - ah, _Christ_ \- exactly what he didn’t want to see.

Even in the miniature scale the TV had to offer, he could make out the two figures chasing one another through the air, their reflections wavering in the glass of the Harrison Skyscraper.  The cameraman zoomed in on one, the pursuer, and Dean could make out the features he knew he’d see.

The flying figure was a man.  Tall, well-muscled, in a skintight suit that looked like spandex but probably wasn’t.  His handsome face was set in an expression of stoic determination, and a lock of dark hair fell artfully into his face.  For a moment, even at this distance, his green eyes flicked - looked straight into the camera lens.  He smiled, white teeth flashing, before turning back to the matter at hand.

“The Archangel’s got him on the ropes,” Dorothy observed from behind her large black coffee.  “I don’t think Renegade’s gonna make it out this time.”

“Good.  He’s been running rings around this city for long enough,” another customer replied.

The cameraman had apparently grown bored with the Archangel’s close-up ready pearly-whites, zooming out long enough to get a bead on the Renegade, then moving back in.  The familiar, terrifying helmet took a while to come into focus, but when it did, the matte black and dark blue design sent murmurs of appreciation through the coffee shop.

The Archangel could fly.  The Renegade couldn’t, at least not with any sort of superpowers.  To make up for this, he (or she, thank you Charlie) had fashioned him (or her) self a set of mechanical wings.  They were huge, cloud-blocking, sun-blotting things, the pitch-black of nightmares and wormholes, and they sliced through the air with a disquieting ease.

The Renegade did not cheese for the camera, Dean was unsurprised to note.  Not that you could see his face with that helmet in the way.  Stoic sonuvabitch.

The cameraman pulled back again just in time to catch the Archangel hurl a ball of flame straight from his palm, aiming for the Renegade’s wings.  The vigilante dipped out of the way just in time, though Dean would have bet good money that he’d been singed, at least.  Another ball of flame quickly followed the first, and Dean’s nostrils suddenly filled with the scent of imagined smoke and ash.

His chest was tight.

_Another fireball._

He stumbled a step back from the counter.

“Turn it off.  Change it.  Whatever you want, just - ” Dean flapped a hand helplessly at the television before retreating into the kitchen once more.

The silence of the kitchen was at once claustrophobic and comforting.  Deep breaths - the smell of brown sugar and cinnamon and, yeah, tons of coffee - warmed him, stopped the frustration from pounding so hard in his temples.  With a grumble, he flipped on the sink faucet and buried his hands in the soapy hot water.

_Like a damn child,_ he chided himself.  _Should be able to watch like everyone else.  Hell, should be able to enjoy it like everyone else._

But always -

_Fire, shouting, the indistinct billowing of a cape -_

“You wanna talk about it?”

Charlie appeared at his elbow like a redheaded shadow, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed.  She was inspecting the side of his face with a bucketload more interest than Dean liked.

“Talk about what?”

“Hah.  Don’t mess with me, Winchester.  You just flayed me alive in front of a room full of paying customers.  I at least deserve an apology.”

He turned the faucet off.  It squeaked.  “I’m sorry.”

“For…”

He sighed, giving in.  Like a puppet, he parroted, “I’m sorry for screaming at you in front of everyone.  I’m sorry for freaking out about the TV.”

“And I’m sorry for turning on the news in the first place.  I know I promised I wouldn’t.  But Dean -”

And he knew what she was going to say.  That in the past, Super-spotting had been something that only dorks with too much time on their hands did.  That it had been a waste of time and brain cells.  That it wasn’t worth the effort.

… That things were different these days, ever since the Renegade had come to town.

The Archangel had been a looming presence in Amber City for as long as Dean could remember.  His be-caped figure was splashed everywhere, from billboards to coffee cups.  And he’d had a steady stream of criminals to vanquish - muggers, rapists, thieves, even the occasional domestic terrorist group.  But he was the only public Super in the city, and none of his quarry had ever stood much of a chance against him.

The Renegade had showed up like something out of a nightmare, targeting government buildings and local factories and generally making a nuisance of himself.  And the Archangel had tried - god _damn_ had he tried - to take the Renegade down.  But the vigilante had a few tricks up his robotic sleeves, the most impressive of which turned out to be the fact that he was a Super, same as the Archangel.  

“Turning them into some kinda spectator sport like that,” Dean grumbled, “it’s dumb, plain and simple.  Somebody’s gonna get hurt.”

“Nobody’s gotten hurt yet.”

And that was the thing, wasn’t it?  Because no matter how much the two Supers might aim blows at one another, not a single civilian had been so much as scratched in the fray.  But the Renegade had a drive to match his abilities, and he kept harrying the city like someone with a Volvo-sized bee in his bonnet.

“I turned the TV off,” Charlie told him.  “Come on back out to the shop and make nice.  Let’s let everyone know we haven’t killed each other.”

“Yet.”

“Please, Dean.  You know I’d kick your ass.”

“Only ‘cuz you fight dirty.”  Dean began following Charlie back to the shop floor -

\- Which was when the loud _BOOM_ rattled the windows.

Dean braced himself against the stainless steel kitchen counter, willing his racing heart to calm.  It took a solid few moments before the ringing in his ears died enough for -

“You said you turned it off!”

Charlie was pale.  “That wasn’t the TV.”

_Shit._

Dean scrambled for the door.

It was almost impossible to see out the plate glass windows that faced the street - the air was thick and grey with smoke and debris.  Tables had overturned - some customers sprawled on the floor, either having been knocked from their seats by the disruption, or having thrown themselves to the floor.  

“Everyone good?” Dean asked.

No one responded, shock still freezing vocal cords and limbs alike.

“Hey!” Dean said again, loud enough to jolt people back to themselves.  “Anyone hurt?”

Dorothy was the first to speak.  “All dandy here,” she said, standing.  Between the two of them, they checked the more catatonic of the cafe’s patrons.  Aside from a sliced finger from a broken coffee mug, Deja Brew was relatively unscathed.

“Dean.”  He glanced behind him to see Charlie holding up the remote, a silent question in her eyes.  He nodded.  With a hand that only shook a little bit, Charlie pointed the remote at the television and switched the news back on.

Every single one of the cafe’s customers was silent, eyes trained on the screen.

Where the middle five floors of the Harrison Building had been, there was now a gaping, smoking hole.  The top part of the building was slowly collapsing, raining deadly shards of glass and chunks of brick onto the onlookers below.  The camera found the Archangel ducking into the open side of the skyscraper, emerging with screaming office workers and shocked security guards and conveying to the vague safety of the ground.

The Renegade was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh my God,” Charlie murmured next to Dean.  Her eyes were so wide, he thought they’d swallow the rest of her face.

Dean couldn’t muster words to reply.

The reporter on the news was doing enough talking for all of them, though.  “In a shocking twist, the Renegade appears to have detonated an explosive, taking out offices in the south east corner of the building.  The Archangel appears to be ferrying workers to safety - ”

Dean and Charlie both sucked in anxious breaths at the same time - a tall, achingly familiar figure had crossed behind the reporter.

“Sammy, what the hell are you doing?” Dean mumbled, watching as his brother trained a camera on the smoking ruin of the building and snapped off a few shots.

“His job, Dean,” Charlie reminded him.

“He needs to get _out_ of there.”  

“No accounts yet of the Renegade’s whereabouts, though eyewitnesses are claiming…” the static voice of the reporter faded into Dean’s background as he whipped out his phone, speed-dialing his brother’s number.  On the screen, he saw Sam check his phone, glance at the news camera, roll his eyes, and answer.

“Dean.”

“You weren’t gonna pick up, were you?”

“What do you want?  Things are kinda crazy right now -”

“Yeah, the whole damn city knows things are kinda crazy.  Get your ass outta there, Sammy.”

“The Renegade just blew up a skyscraper, and you want me to run?  C’mon.”

Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Fine.  Fine!  Just - be careful.”

“Yeah.”

“And if you see that Renegade bastard - ”

“I’ll shoot him.  And not with my camera.”

Sam hung up first.  Sammy always hung up first.

Pocketing his phone, Dean turned back to the cafe.  Most of the customers were on their own phones, trying to get through to loved ones, reassuring them and being reassured in turn.  Not wanting to disrupt them, he pulled aside Dorothy and Charlie.

“Help me move the tables,” he said.  “I wanna clear a space.”

“Why?”

“Harrison Building’s not too far, and they’re gonna need a safe place to treat people that got hurt, or are just too in shock to move.  You two can store the furniture in the kitchen if you need to - just get the floor clear.”

“What about you?” Dorothy asked.  Charlie was already starting to shift the nearest few chairs.

“Someone’s gotta let the EMTs and crap know.  Gimme your scarf.”  Dorothy handed it over silently, watching as Dean tied it around his nose and mouth.  

“Be careful out there,” Charlie cautioned as he made for the door.  He shot her a wink and stepped outside into the smoky street.

“Fucking Winchesters,” he thought he heard her mutter as the door swung closed behind him.

*** * ***

Sam’s photos were splashed on the homepage of every news site in the country a few hours later.  They even took front page above-the-fold in a few international newspapers.

Charlie had the papers framed and put them on the wall next to the old movie posters and that stun gun replica from that old lizard-people flick she was obsessed with.

It took industrial-grade bleach to get some of the bloodstains out of Deja Brew’s floor.

*** * ***

“Just ‘cuz you’re the Eyeball of Amber City or whatever doesn’t mean you get that muffin for free.”

Sam Winchester looked innocently over the counter at Dean, half a blueberry muffin already wedged into his Sasquatch mouth.  “Mmph?”

“Ugh, Sammy, c’mon -” Dean wiped at the sprayed crumbs on the countertop.  Sam took the opportunity to swallow before the pastry suffocated him.

“I wanted to bring some home for Jess and Mary, too,” Sam said.

“And you were, what, checking to see if the muffins were poison?”

“Can never be too careful when Charlie’s near the kitchen.”

“I heard that!” Charlie called from somewhere in the back.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, taking a cardboard carrying box out from under the cash register.  “Four okay?”

“Perfect.”

Dean slipped five into the box, avoiding his brother’s gaze.  When it came down to Sam’s wife and daughter, Dean had an unsettling tendency to melt like butter on a hot sidewalk.

“Any word on the Renegade?” he murmured, taping the box closed.  Sam, face grim, shook his head.

“Nothing,” he replied.  “Everyone at the paper’s tapped their sources.  Nothing.  It’s like the guy just vanished.”

“Good,” Dean said viciously.  “Thirty-seven people dead, he better know that if he shows his robo-face again he’ll get ripped to shreds.”

“Still,” Sam said, accepting the box.  “That’s not really how terrorists work, is it?  They take credit for this kinda thing.  Nobody’s heard a peep from the Renegade for weeks.”

“I ain’t sad about it.”

“Not saying I am,” Sam said.  “But still.  Bears thinking about.”  He had that far-off expression on, the one that got him into trouble - the one that sent him poking and digging into problems that didn’t want to be poked or dug at.  _Reporters_ , Dean thought, battling a hint of amusement.

“Can I have two pieces of coffee cake?” Sam finally asked, jerking himself out of his reverie.  “I’ll pay for them.”

“You hate coffee cake.”

“’S not for me.”

“Yeah?  Who’s the lucky lady?”

Sam watched as Dean put two pieces of coffee cake - one cinnamon and one lemon - into a paper sack.  “Not a lady.  You know that guy?  Outside?”

Dean cocked an eyebrow.  “Guy?”

“Homeless guy.  He’s been kinda living in the alley next to your Dumpster.  You’ve seriously never seen him?”

He mentally rewound through the last few weeks.  “No?” he said.  “But I’ve been kinda distracted.”  And he had been.  In the aftermath of the Harrison Building, Dean’s life had become a blur of shock and cleanup.  His nightmares had started up again, so bad that it felt like he never even left the shop these days.  He’d wake up around 5, sweating and thrashing, take a shower, throw on some clothes, and be in the shop by 5:40.  Then he’d stay… and stay, and stay, and stay, until he finally couldn’t think of another excuse to hang around.  Then he’d drag his ass back to his apartment around midnight before waking up at 5am to do it all over again.  

Still.  He should have noticed something like that.  And if the guy was living behind the cafe, it probably meant that his house had been destroyed in the Renegade bombing.  Goddamn Supers.

He glared at his brother.  “Gimme back that cake.”

There was no one in the alley when Dean stuck his head out the back door.  But when he peered (against every single one of his screaming germaphobic instincts) into a hole in the rotting brick wall, he found a sleeping bag and a plastic baggie stashed away from the seeping wetness of alleys everywhere.  Upon closer inspection, the baggie appeared to contain a toothbrush and a half-used tube of toothpaste.  Dean shook his head.  _Sammy was right._

He considered his options for a moment, before slipping the coffee cake into the nook as well.  It was now four slices, wrapped in tinfoil and sealed in a sandwich bag.  He’d even scribbled a note on a Post-It and stuck it to the outside: “In case you’re hungry.  -Deja Brew”.

Then, glancing back up and down the dim alley, Dean headed back inside.

*** * ***

There were any number of excuses a guy could come up with to avoid walking home from work late at night in the pouring rain.  There were the account books.  There was the poster-dusting.  There was the whole goddamn kitchen that needed to be given a thorough once-over, since Charlie had decided that it would be a good idea to experiment with baking chocolate chess pie earlier that day.

And finally, the trash needed to be taken out.  Gripping the heavy, smelly bag in one hand and holding his jacket over his head with the other, Dean threw open the back door -  
\- and promptly tripped over a man huddled in the doorway.

“What the hell - ”

“I’m so sorry - ”

“Jesus Christ!” The trash bag went tumbling as Dean fought to regain his balance, used coffee cups and kitchen detritus and coffee grounds spilling onto the sodden cement.  “Ah, shit.”  
Without another word, the speed bump-man scuttled out into the rain, collecting the garbage and shoving it back into the plastic bag.  “C’mon man, you don’t have to do that,” Dean protested weakly, but the man showed no sign of stopping.  “Fine,” he huffed, stepping out to help him.

Together, they managed to re-fill the garbage bag in record time, though they were both soaked to the bone by the time they finished.  The man handed the bag back to Dean.  “I really am very sorry,” he said in a voice like gargled glass.  

“Don’t sweat it.  Let me just - um - ” Dean fumbled the bag into the Dumpster and slammed the bin closed again, wiping his hands futilely on his jeans.  He turned back to the other man.    
It was hard to get a good look at him in the gloom.  The man’s clothes were baggy and worn - obviously second- or third- or twelfth-hand, a red hoodie and some tattered jeans.  The hood was pulled up over the man’s head, casting shadows over the guy’s face, but Dean spotted strands of dark brown hair plastered to his forehead.  

He was shivering.  And, underneath all that extra cloth, too thin.

Hell.  He’d been living behind the cafe for weeks, according to Sam, and he hadn’t done anything bad yet.  God knows he’d had the opportunity - Charlie had an unpleasant habit of leaving the backdoor accidentally unlocked.

“You wanna come inside?  Dry off?”

The guy just stared at him.

“I’m gonna,” Dean continued.  “We got towels and stuff.  Might even be able to wrangle a change of clothes, ‘cuz I spill stuff a lot when I’m cooking.”  He opened the back door.  The warm light of the kitchen had never looked so inviting.  “Well?”

Another long silence from the guy.  Then, without even a nod of acquiescence, he walked past Dean into the kitchen.

It took Dean only a few seconds to dig out the clean dishtowels.  He tossed a few to the homeless man and saved the last for himself, toweling his hair off vigorously.  Vanity was a pipe dream at this point - he hoped it only made him look a little bit less like a drowned rat.

When he finally lifted his head, he glanced over at the other guy to offer him some tea or a hot drink or something -

_Fuck._

Dudes who lived in your doorway weren’t supposed to be smokin’ hot, were they?

He was tall - about the same height as Dean - with broad shoulders and skin that seemed to be naturally tan.  The rough dish towel had left the guy’s hair spiking in every goddamn direction, which somehow only served to highlight the intense blue of his quizzical eyes.  He squinted across the kitchen at Dean, water dripping steadily into a puddle around his sneakers.

He opened his mouth to speak -

And a series of rough hacking coughs escaped instead.

“Whoa, buddy,” Dean said, snatching the damp towels from the guy’s hands.  “Sounds like you’re coming down with something there.”

“I’m fine - ”

“Yeah, and I’m Princess Leia,” Dean retorted.  The look of utter confusion the guy shot him was like a dagger to Dean’s soul - if he didn’t know what Star Wars was, Dean was going to resign from the human race.  But still - interrogating the man who maybe had walking pneumonia or something wasn’t exactly the best way to go about things, so Dean settled for shooting him his patented Devastating Winchester Grin instead.  “I’m gonna get you some dry clothes,” he said, “and maybe some tea.  You stay here, okay?”

“Why are you helping me?” the man asked.  

_Don’t beat around any bushes or anything._   Dean floundered.  “Seemed like the thing to do,” he said, shrugging.  “Um - I’m Dean.”

He shook out a hand to shake.  After a long moment, the guy accepted it.  “Castiel.”

And… that seemed to be about as much as he was planning to say.  “‘Kay,” Dean finally said.  “Uh - cool.”

He could feel Castiel’s eyes boring into the space between his shoulder blades as he dug out the spare “emergency clothes” he had stashed.  He realized he only had one pair of clean jeans, but he handed them off to Castiel without much consideration.  “Bathroom right through there if you want to change,” Dean said, pointing.  

There was another long moment of silence as Castiel studied him - and damn, the man could win a gold metal for the thousand-yard stare.  Dean busied himself at the stove, avoiding the scrutiny and burying his discomfort in the tea kettle.  “English Breakfast okay?” he called over his shoulder.  “I think I’ve got some green lying around - my brother likes it - ”

But when Dean glanced behind him, the man was gone.  “Black it is, then,” he muttered.

His hands moved on autopilot, lighting the burner under the kettle and plopping tea bags into battered mugs, leaving his brain to question what, exactly, he thought he was doing.  

The way Castiel had looked at him, though - as though he’d been totally dumbfounded to be receiving any help of any kind - it had rung all sorts of memory-bells in the back of Dean’s skull.  He remembered feeling that way - remembered that sudden weightless sensation of expecting an uphill struggle and finding out things were gonna be easy coasting.

Sometimes you just had to pay it forward.

There was a small TV by the kitchen counter - he’d snagged it from someone on Craigslist for a few bucks, and now he used it to catch up on “Dr. Sexy” while he worked late some nights.  He flicked it on now, more for the comforting flicker of light and hum of background noise than any actual desire to watch anything.  He was humming along to some familiar commercial jingle and pouring steaming water over the tea when Castiel returned from the bathroom.

He was Dean’s height, but leanly muscular where Dean was more stocky and broad.  If he’d been properly fed, Dean would have pegged him for a runner - he had that sort of body.  Now, though, the borrowed clothing hung off him.  He stood in the doorway, tense, almost as though he wasn’t certain if he’d have to beat it at any second.  

Dean recognized that look, too.

“Better?” Dean asked.

The man inclined his head slightly.  “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it.  Here.”  He offered him one of the mugs, noticing the way Castiel wrapped his hands around it, absorbing the warmth.  Dean shivered.  He’d forgotten, for a moment, how fucking freezing he was.

“You are still drenched.”

“Um.”  Screw it.  He peeled his sopping shirt off over his head and whipped the last clean one on instead.  When his head poked through the neck-hole, he gave the other man a brilliant smile.  “Voila.”

Castiel buried his small smile in a sip of tea.  “Much improved.”

“‘Much improved’,” Dean echoed.  “You don’t talk like most people, do you?”

“It has been said.”

And now it was Dean’s turn for a critical squint.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe the guy was homeless.  Dean know on a horrifically personal level that anyone in the world could wind up on the streets.  All it took was one moment of misplaced trust, one slip-up, one bit of overconfidence - anybody could end up out on their ass same as anybody else.

“You got anyone?” Dean finally asked.  Castiel looked up at him sharply.  “Anyone you could go to for help, I mean.”

“If I had, do you think I would be living in your alley?”

“Touche.”

Castiel studied the surface of his tea.  “I did,” he said.  “Have people.  But - it would not be a good idea to go to them.  I don’t want to get them into trouble.”

“C’mon, man, if they care about you it’s not any trouble - ”

“I said ‘get them _into_ trouble’.  It’s not a good idea to know me, Dean.”

“You ever think that’s something people get to decide for themselves?”

But Castiel wasn’t meeting his eyes - he stared over Dean’s shoulder instead.  Dean sighed.  “Listen,” he said.  “We just met, so I’m not here to tell you how to live your life.  But I don’t like thinking you’re out there going hungry or anything.  So tell you what - once a day, if you wanna swing by here?  I’ll make sure you get fed.  Won’t be a three-course whatever, or anything, but -”  He paused, looking for some kind of reaction - for any kind of reaction - from the other man.  “Cas?”

The guy had gone nauseously pale - white as a fucking sheet.  Dean would’ve put good money that he hadn’t heard a word Dean had just said.  His terrified eyes - wide as a couple of soup tureens - were fixed on the television screen over Dean’s shoulder.

“No.”  Cas mouthed the word soundlessly.  

“What - ” Dean turned - and nearly felt like tossing his cookies himself.

The words were everywhere - twisting the newscaster's lips, exploding in yellow letters near her head, scrolling along the bottom of the screen - 

_The Return of the Renegade._

Even in the driving rain, Dean could make out the familiar form of the Renegade, standing on top of City Hall’s roof.  His wings flared, patches of darkness against a crackle of lightning that lit the sky behind him.

“It’s not possible,” he heard Cas mutter from somewhere behind him, but Dean was mesmerized by the broadcast.  

“Fucking hell,” Dean said.  “He comes back here - after everything he - ”  

He turned back to Cas, ready to rant -

But all he saw was a half-empty mug of still-steaming tea, and the kitchen door swinging open into the torrential downpour.

Castiel was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr me [here](http://mo1st-von-lipwig.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

_“Give up, Renegade!” the Archangel proclaimed, hovering effortlessly in midair.  His reflection in the polished glass of the Harrison Building had made it seem as though there were two of him - two sets of perfect white teeth, two sets of hard green eyes, two artfully crafted helmets adorned with golden wings.  His gaze had been fixed on Castiel but his attention had occasionally darted to the crowd gathered below._

_Castiel said nothing.  He tried to make a point of saying nothing - engaging the Archangel in conversation was an exercise in frustration and futility.  Instead, he ignited the propulsion jets in his boots and shot straight up in the air._ If I could just make it to the roof -

_“You’re not going anywhere.”  And the Archangel was in front of him once more, blocking his path.  “Your reign of terror in this city ends today.”_

_“I do not seek to harm the people of this city.”  The words ripped themselves out of Castiel’s throat, and he could see a look of shock cross the Archangel’s handsome face.  “I am trying to_ defend _them.”_

_The Archangel’s fist caught him square in the jaw.  It sent him tumbling down a few, stomach-dropping levels before he was able to gain control over his suit enough to level out.  Even with layers of steel absorbing much of the blow’s force, Castiel’s head rung._

_“The only plot here is yours,” the Archangel shouted, and Castiel could swear he leveled a wink at a far-off news camera.  “Soon, the city will know you for the monster you truly are!”_

_“I’m not a monster - I’ve done nothing to hurt anyone - ”_

_“Maybe not yet.”  And here, a sickening grin split the Archangel’s face.  “But give it five seconds.”_

_And when the air ignited - all Castiel could do was fall._

**xXx**

The warehouse looked exactly as it had when he’d left it weeks before - urine-stained, rusted, and generally appalling.  Castiel pulled his jacket - Dean’s jacket - close around him as he leaned in to inspect the padlock on the door.  It, too, looked unchanged - and remarkably undamaged, given the state of the rest of the warehouse.  In fact, it was blatantly new and discouragingly sturdy.

And quite expensive.  Which he knew because he’d been the one to purchase it.

With a sigh, Castiel paced around the outside of the warehouse.  Most of the walls were gray cement blocks, but he knew there was one corrugated shutter…

There -

Pulled firmly over a window, but rusting through at the corner.

 _And you had to be an idiot and throw the padlock key in the river._ Castiel spared a few choice words for his past self as he removed his jacket, laying it carefully on top of a nearby trash can.  Dean had been kind to him - remarkably so.  There was no sense in paying him back by ruining his clothing.  

 _Better to just get this over with._ He wrapped his still-sodden sweatshirt around his fist - and let a powerful punch fly at the rusted shutter.

The metal gave way.  So, of course, did the skin of Castiel’s knuckles, as well as a few bones underneath.  He could feel the sharp edges of the metal tear into the sides of his palm as he pulled his shattered hand back through the jagged hole.  That never gets easier.  Reaching forwards with his other hand, he gripped the edge of the hole and, with a grunt of effort, peeled the weakened metal back.  When the hole was big enough for him to crawl through, he shouldered his way inside.

Blood streamed from both his hands by the time he collapsed on the concrete floor.  He forced himself up onto his knees before drawing his battered hands in front of him, focusing hard.  Blue light streamed from every tear in his flesh, knitting bone and skin.  Castiel winced at the tingle, flexing his wrists.

“Always love the light show.”

He was on his feet before his brain had a chance to catch up with what his body was doing.  He scanned the shadows, each one seeming to stretch on forever - the sun was, after all, only barely starting to make headway over the horizon.  But at the far side of the room, something shifted - a figure moving in the darkness -

Castiel relaxed.  He might not be able to see the person’s face, but he’d recognize those motorcycle boots anywhere.

“What are you doing here, Meg?”

There was a low chuckle, and a small woman paced out of the gloom.  Hard humor sparkled in her dark eyes, and her red lips were twisted in a wry smile.  “Same as you, Clarence.”

“I have repeatedly asked you not to call me that.”

“And I have repeatedly ignored you.”  She cocked her head, studying him.  “You doing okay?”

“I am fine.”

“Only, you look a little rough around the edges.”

“I’m fine.”

“Hey, no need to get snippy.  I like a few stray threads on a guy.  Just wanted to be sure you’re, you know… fed.”

The image of slices and slices of coffee cake tucked into his cubby hole in the alley behind Deja Brew - Dean’s offer, fading as he fled - “If you wanna swing by here?  I’ll make sure you get fed.” - warm green eyes and an easy smile -

“I’m.  Fine.”

“‘Whatever.”  She propped a fist on her hip.  “Guessing you saw the news.”

Castiel decided that any response to that would be ridiculous.  Instead, he opted for crossing wordlessly to the far wall of the warehouse.  There was a pattern in the cement block - almost invisible, if you didn’t know to look for it.  Castle trailed his fingertips over the wall, feeling the vague indentations.

 _I already walked away once,_ he thought, jaw tightening.  _No one said I’d have to do it a second time._

But no one had said he _wouldn’t_ , either.  Huffing a frustrated sigh, Castiel punched a very specific code into the hidden wall panel, then laid his entire hand over the panel’s surface.  A electronic whirring filled the air as the disguised sensor scanned him, confirming his identity.  “Renegade,” a robotic female voice beeped at him.  “Confirm entry?”  

The question was as much of a trick as the hidden keypad, a safeguard he’d put in as a last resort.  Without the exact programmed response, a detonation would go off in the space below them, destroying all evidence of Castiel's alter-ego - as well as Castiel's attackers.  And probably Castiel.  Accelerated healing was great, but when your brain was coating the remnants of a warehouse wall... well, there was only so much a genetic mutation could do for you.

“Please confirm entry,” Castiel murmured.  With a hiss of air, a panel in the floor slid back, revealing a well-lit flight of stairs descending into the earth.  Gritting his teeth, he took the first few steps into the basement, before casting a glance over his shoulder at Meg.

She was watching him, that half-amused smile quirking her lips.  “Are you coming?” he grated at her.

Meg held up her hands in self-defense.  “I’m right behind you, Clarence,” she told him, striding towards the stairs.  “I’m always right behind you.”

**xXx**

“Holy crap.”

“Yes.”

Castiel’s voice was strangled, hoarse.  He couldn’t manage much more by way of response - shock was doing too good a job of freezing his limbs and paralyzing his vocal cords.

This was his lair - no, this _had been_ his lair until a few months ago.  And now, the past-tense was even more applicable, given the general state of the place.  Computer monitors that had once lined the walls lay shattered on the ground, the crystal of their screens creating a shimmering, dangerous carpet on the concrete floor.  Electrical wires, once sparking with energy, now dangled, dead, from the wall sockets.  The squashy leather couch that Meg had brought down (“Because this place feels like a fucking dungeon, Blue-Eyes.”) was overturned and gutted, white stuffing spilling in tragic clouds.  The refrigerator door hung off its hinges; the table where Castiel and Meg had shared so many disappointing microwavable meals stood on its side, one leg ripped off; the bookshelf had been emptied, and the books themselves had been slashed apart.

He was barely conscious of Meg gravitating towards the piles of torn paper, searching through them for any literary survivors.  His own attention was fixed on the closet at the other end of the room - a closet whose door had been splintered open, a closet which now stood empty.

“They took my suit,” Castiel said, his words echoing dully in the musty air.

Meg regarded him levelly, sitting back on her heels.  “We figured as much.  Right?”

Something glinted in the rubble near the closet door.  “Right.”

“So - and just hear me out on this one - what’s the problem?”  Castiel looked sharply over at Meg, who just shrugged unapologetically.  “Someone else is putting a bee in the Archangel’s bonnet,” she continued.  “In what universe is that a bad thing?”

“Because,” Castiel said, reaching the closet and shifting through the detritus for the glinting object.  “This.”  

Meg’s eyes narrowed as she took in the single, glinting, golden feather in his fingers.  “Are you serious,” she deadpanned.  “He didn’t even bother to clean up after himself?”

“He wanted me to find it,” Castiel replied, turning the feather over in his fingers.  “The Archangel has always had a passion for gloating.”

“But how could he have found this place?  How did he get in?”

“I don’t know.”  Castle felt numb, staring at the golden feather in his fingers.

“There’s been no shortage of police around, not after the Harrison Building,” Meg said, thinking out-loud.  “And at least half of them are on Mayor Adler’s personal payroll.  Between him and the Archangel… it might not have been too hard.”

“He found my lair.  He took my suit.  Now there’s someone out there, pretending to be me so that he can continue as Amber City’s golden boy.”

“Douche,” Meg muttered.  

The feather - _the calling card_ , Castiel mentally clarified - seemed to fill his vision, overwhelming him.  He felt pressure burning up his esophagus - unadulterated fury that threatened to obliterate him.

“The Renegade was supposed to _die_.”  It came out sharper than Castiel had intended, but Meg didn’t react.  “After that explosion, he needed to _die_.”

“That bomb _wasn’t your fault_ , Castiel.”  Now Meg was standing, glaring at him, and he couldn’t look away.  “People at ground zero - they caught shrapnel.  You caught blame.  Wrong place, wrong time, right reputation.”

“I caught some shrapnel, too.”

“Shut up.  I’m trying to make a point.”  She stepped forward, palm lifting in an aborted consoling gesture.  But Meg didn’t really do sympathy, not really, not purely.  She let her hand drop.  “You couldn’t have saved everyone.  It wasn’t possible.”

He studied his hands for a long moment, knotting and unknotting his fingers.  Dean’s face swam into focus in his mind’s eye - the way his warm eyes had smiled at him.  The way those same eyes had gone cold and hateful the second he saw the report on the “Renegade” on the coffee shop’s tiny television.  “They’re calling me evil,” he said.

“They always did.”

“That was just… P.R.  Now there’s lives - there’s blood on my hands.”  He ran his fingers through his hair.  “People _hate_ me.”

“Do you care?”

“I didn’t.  Now…”  He leaned his weight on the upturned couch, feeling his shoulders slouch.  “I didn’t want to be a ‘supervillain’.  When I started this.  I just wanted to… Make a difference, I suppose?”  He sighed.  “This city is my home.  What the Archangel is doing to it - ”

“I know,” Meg said.

“It didn’t matter when it was just me.  And you.  They could call me whatever they wanted.  But somebody is killing people.  And they’re using me as an excuse.”  He shook his head.  “I don’t want to be anybody’s excuse.”

“So what?  You keep rolling over for them and hope they get tired of using the Renegade as a punching bag?”

Castiel’s fists clenched at his sides.  “No.”

“No?”  Meg’s eyes brightened.  “Dare I hope that you’re done with the useless self-flagellating fugue section of your origin story?”

“The Archangel - and whoever he’s working with - is going to stop playing puppet master to this city.  Just because he can do what he wants doesn’t mean he gets to do whatever he wants.  I am going to expose the corruption that has been hidden for too long.”

“Gonna be tough,” Meg quipped, gesturing at the destruction around them.  “You’re kinda starting from square one here.”  She listed her head to the side.  “You’re probably gonna need help.  Again.”

“Are you offering?”

“There’s no beating your benefits package,” she told him with an exaggerated wink.  Stifling a smile, Castiel gripped her arm with a firm, warm hand.

“You’re the best sidekick a supervillain could ask for.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Meg cooed, patting Castiel’s cheek.  “Call me a sidekick again and I’ll break your fucking arm.”

**xXx**

It wasn’t that Meg’s car was small - it was that it was _microscopic_.  Cas tumbled out the passenger’s side door and gulped in a breath of cool air, doing his best to ignore Meg’s evil chuckle behind him.  

“Not all of us are pocket-sized,” he grumbled, slamming the door behind him.  “Thank you for the ride.”

He was at Deja Brew once more - standing out front, not lurking in the side alley.  Ostensibly, the reason for his visit was to retrieve the few belongings that he’d left.  The plummeting sensation in his gut, though, belied those pure intentions.  

He wanted to see Dean again.

And maybe return his jacket.

But mostly see him.

Shirtless, again?  He wouldn’t be opposed to -

Almost as though he’d been summoned by that runaway train of thought, Dean’s voice filtered through the half-open coffee shop door.  “- out of my shop!”  It wasn’t quite a shout, but it was on its way there, and the pressurized fury in it was tangible.  Castiel’s head whipped around to stare at the front window.

All he could make out was Dean’s profile, much more rigid and stiff than he’d seemed the evening before.  He was addressing someone out of sight - someone who seemed to be doing their best to tick him off as much as possible.

The tiny honk of Meg’s car horn.  He jerked his focus back to her.  “Finally!” she exclaimed.  “I’ve been calling your name forever.  You sure you don’t want me to wait?”

“I’ll find my own way.”

“You know I don’t _actually_ mind - ”

“I know.  I’ll see you later, Meg.”

Her lips twitched upwards in a sad smile.  “That better be a promise, Clarence,” she said.  He nodded and turned to leave, but she evidently wasn’t finished.  “Just - don’t bury yourself underground again, okay?”  When he just squinted at her in confusion, she huffed a laugh.  “Jeez, your face - I mean, you don’t have to lock yourself away from everything.  You’re not a hermit, alright?  You’re a person.  Who is trying to save the world, or whatever, but - ”  She rolled her eyes.  “You have no idea what I’m saying right now.  Forget it.”

“Meg - ”

“Later, Blue-Eyes.”

Her ridiculous clown car hadn’t been gone for more than a millisecond before Castiel found his eyes drawn once more to Dean’s profile, framed so perfectly in the window.  The conversation inside seemed to have gotten even more heated since Castiel had looked away, though Dean’s volume had dropped.  Through the glass, Castiel could see that his hands were clenched into fists.  He was, Castiel reckoned, no more than twenty seconds away from punching someone in the face.

It would be so easy to just slip into the alley, gather his sleeping bag and toothbrush, and disappear out of Dean’s life forever.  He had a mission again, after all.  Things to start planning, goals to begin achieving -

But his feet carried him towards the front door of Deja Brew.

A high-pitched noise as he pushed the door open - _pew-pew_ , like a laser gun in an old science fiction film.  _Adorable_ , he thought absently to himself, taking stock of the room around him.  For the weeks he’d been living in the alley, he’d never ventured into the shop itself.  Now he saw that it was a veritable monument to geek culture - the walls and shelves adorned with movie, television, and comic book paraphernalia, none of which he really recognized.  The shop was empty, too - except for Dean, of course, as well as a slender redheaded woman who Castiel vaguely recognized as being one of the co-owners.  The two of them were facing off against a pair of men - one black and one white, both in immaculately tailored suits.

The conversation did not seem to be going well.

“- would be doing Amber City an incredible service,” the white man was saying, his voice smooth and accented.  “And of course, the Mayor has arranged for you to be compensated in full for your… amenability.”

“More than in full,” his partner chimed in.  “I’ve seen what this cockroach nest is worth, and - ”

The British man gave a pointed cough, and his partner broke off mid-sentence.  This did nothing, however, to calm Dean.

“You wanna finish that sentence?” he asked, eyes dangerous.

“What Mr. Raphael was trying so indelicately to say,” the Englishman cut in, “is that it is in your best interest to accept this deal.”

“Or what?” the redheaded woman asked.  “You’ll burn Deja Brew down?”

The Englishman turned to her, eyes wide and faux-aghast.  “Such insinuations, Miss Bradbury!” he exclaimed.  “You really might consider cutting back on the comic books, they are doing such things to your imagination.”

“You’re full of crap, Crowley,” Dean said, stepping forward - and Castiel’s mental countdown of Dean clocking somebody started ticking all over again.

“Mind your place, _boy_ ,” the man called Raphael ground out.  It was only because of his angled vantage point that Castiel saw Raphael’s fingers twitch towards the hem of his jacket.  The material shifted and, just for a moment, the lights above glinted off something black and shiny hidden away in the suit’s depths.  A gun hilt?  A blackjack?  Castle couldn’t be sure, but if Dean kept talking the way that he seemed inclined to be -

“I don’t have to mind anything to you,” Dean spat back in Raphael’s face.  “This place is ours, bought and paid for, and neither you or Mayor Adler can do anything about it.”  He smiled bitterly.  “You’re nothing but the Mayor’s bitch, buddy.  How’s that feel?”

It turned out that Raphael had a blackjack, as well as a neat set of brass knuckles hidden in his pockets.  Castiel barely had time to register this - he was across the room as fast as his feet could take him, putting himself between Dean and the enraged man.  Without a second thought, he brought his arm up to meet the blackjack’s downward swing, before cleverly intercepting the brass knuckles with his rib cage.  

Dean’s astonished “Cas?” echoed faintly in his ears as he doubled forward, clutching his ribs.  He’d fractured one, he could tell, and bruised at least two more.  The arm - who knew?  It hurt, but he could already feel his wounds starting to heal.

“Oh dear,” Crowley commented, watching Castiel crumple with an expressionless face.  “Friend of yours?”

“Get out.”  Castiel managed to glance up to see the redheaded woman standing by the counter, a - was that a gun? - in her hands.  She aimed it with striking competence at Crowley’s head.  “Now.”

“Rude,” Crowley said.  Raphael didn’t bother with the commentary, leveling one last glare at Dean before storming out the door.  Crowley removed a small square of white paper from his pocket and placed it on the nearest table.  “My card,” he said.  “Do consider my proposal.  Perhaps a cooling-down period will serve us all.”  And with a mocking bow, he followed his partner out the door.

“ _Jesus_ , Cas!” Dean crouched next to Castiel, their faces level.  Castiel would have taken the time to admire the view if his chest hadn’t felt as though it were actually on fire.  “What the hell were you thinking?”

“He had - a weapon - ” Castiel managed to wheeze.  

Dean snorted.  “Yeah, I know, I saw him hit you with it.  With _both_ of them.  Are you okay?  Do you need me to call - ”

But Castiel’s breathing was already starting to level out.  “I will be fine,” he said.  “He only knocked the breath out of me.”

Dean squinted.  “You sure?  I could’a sworn I heard something crack - ”

“Here - ” Castiel looked up to find the woman shoving a glass of water into his face.  “Drink this.”  Castiel obeyed, avoiding her and Dean’s eyes.  “Your name’s Cas?” she asked.  

“Yes.”

“Good to, y’know, finally meet you,” she said.  When he looked up, he saw that she was blushing.  “I kinda… caught you dozing out back a couple of times.  Didn’t wanna wake you up.  You looked pretty out.”

“Ah.”  Castiel put the glass down carefully and clambered to his feet. 

“That’s Charlie,” Dean said.  “Owns this place with me - she’s the brains and I’m the beauty.”

“What sort of a gun is that?” Castiel asked, inspecting the weapon in her hand.  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s… not.”  She shrugged.  “It’s a blaster.  From Star Wars?  I dunno, I saw it lying around, and I just kinda… hoped those guys weren’t big Star Wars fans.  If they were, we’d be kinda dead, huh?”  Her giggle was borderline hysterical.

“I am glad you are not,” Castiel replied gravely, clambering to his feet.  “I just - I was coming by to pick up my things and I - heard the commotion.”

“You’re leaving?” Dean asked.

“I think that would be for the best.  I do not wish to make things awkward or uncomfortable for you by… staking out your alley.”  He smiled, strained.  "Anyway, I took a very wise man's advice and reached out to someone.  For help.  And a place to stay."  It would have taken a blind man to miss the blush that suffused Dean's face, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face.

A wordless conversation seemed to have broken out between Charlie and Dean - she was making shuffling, shooing, _go-ahead_ motions with her hands, to which he replied with an unmistakeable _are you sure?_ face.  She rolled her eyes.

“I’m gonna put this back,” she said, hoisting the blaster again.  “Castiel, Dean has something he’d like to ask you.”  She sashayed towards the kitchen, seemingly uncaring of the fact that Dean was glaring holes in her back.

“Dean?”

“Look, man,” Dean said, once the door had swung closed behind Charlie.  “I’d been meaning to actually offer you something like this last night, but you kinda disappeared on me.  And after what you just, y’know, did for me - us.  Uh…”  He shuffled his feet.  “Shit.  I need a drink.  You want a coffee?”

“Tea, if you have it.”

“Sure.”  He drifted towards the various hi-tech coffee machines, Castiel trailing behind him.  “I just… I know what it’s like to be down on your luck.  It can happen to the best of us.  Hell, I’d still be there if a friend of mine hadn’t given me a hand out of a tough space.  English Breakfast okay?”  Castiel nodded.  “Anyway.  Charlie and me - we’re doing pretty good here with the cafe and we’ve talked about it, and we could use an extra hand.  And you’ve, y’know.  Got two of them.  Extra hands.”  The joke was bad, but Dean smiled at it anyway.  Castiel began to feel something warm growing in his chest.  “So if you need - want a job, or anything?  You, uh, got one here.”

For a long moment, Castiel just stared at the man bustling behind the counter, cleaning mugs and boiling water for Castiel’s tea.  A _job_?  He was offering Castiel a place to work -

But he had a place to work.  With Meg.  He had a job to do.  He couldn’t be wasting his time in a coffee shop, of all places…

His lips were curving around a rejection when Meg’s words echoed in his ears.  “You’re not a hermit,” she’d said.  “Don’t bury yourself underground.”  

 _And_ , he thought, watching Dean’s green eyes, _it would be nice to be a part of the city I’m supposed to be saving._

“Sure,” he finally managed to croak.  He cleared his throat, trying not to be blinded by Dean’s grin.  “I mean,” he continued.  “I guess.  Yes.”

“Great!” Dean exclaimed, sliding a steaming mug of tea across the table towards him.  “You can start whenever.”  He clapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the mug in his hands.  “It’s gonna be awesome.  Me’n Charlie, we get along great, and our customers are freaking amazing.”

“Is there a dress code?” Castiel asked, picking at the holes in his jeans and smiling wryly.  “Because you should know I might have a bit of an issue with that.”

The other man just laughed.  “Wear whatever you want, man.  Just cover your bits.  I only got one rule around here anyway.”

“And what is that?”

Dean’s eyes hardened, though he was still grinning.  “No Supers-talk.  Villains, heroes, I don’t care.  Just - I don't do Supers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more fun on Tumblr, you can find me [here](http://mo1st-von-lipwig.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

The trucker cap did nothing to disguise the faint blush that swamped Bobby’s cheeks, tinging his skin pink everywhere his beard didn’t cover.  Dean didn’t bother biting back his grin.  “You wanna say that a little louder?”

“I’ll kick your ass, boy.”

“Couldn’t hear you, that’s all,” Dean said, expression the picture of innocence.

“Fine,” Bobby grumped.  “ _If you would be so kind_.  A large mocha.”

“Could’a sworn there was something else to that order.”

He might have been pushing his luck, but the way Bobby’s eyes narrowed made the whole thing worth it.  “With extra whipped cream.”

“And?”

“ _And chocolate sauce on top_ , alright, you happy?”

Dean beamed.  “Real happy.”  He turned away from the counter without punching the order into the cash register.  Bobby would kick up a fuss about that in T-minus-two seconds, but the guy was a family friend and Dean would rather drink molten lava than allow the man who’d raised him and Sammy pay for a drink in his shop.

“Uh - “ and that was enough to have Dean freezing in his steps.  When he turned back, he saw Bobby shifting uncomfortably in place, way more embarrassed than he had when Dean had been going through the order.  “Get Cas to make it, would'ja?”

Dean slid a slightly astonished gaze over to Cas, who was standing, aproned and tidy, behind the pastry case.  A flutter of surprise lit Cas’s face for a second, before smoothing away.  “My coffee ain’t good enough for you?” Dean asked.

“Ain’t like that,” Bobby mumbled.  “Cas just gets the texture right.”

Throwing up his hands, Dean stepped back.  “Fine!  I know when I’m not wanted.  Cas, floor’s yours.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said, moving to the espresso machine.

It was weird, Dean thought as he watched Cas’s clever, long-fingered hands dance over the shiny chrome, how quickly Cas had slid into place at Deja Brew.  It had been - and Dean had to do a quick mental calculation here - only about two weeks since Dean had offered him that job, and Cas had been one of the best decisions he and Charlie had ever made.  The man learned quick, and once information got into that big brain of his, it didn’t tend to slip out.  He picked up recipes easy as breathing, worked his ass off at any task he was given, and didn’t complain. 

‘Course, he didn’t talk much at all.  You could work a full ten hours with the man and not hear him utter a word beyond “That’ll be four-forty,” or “I’ll get more creamer from the back”.  No chatter, no shootin’-the-shit of any kind.  Even Charlie, chatterbox that she was, was getting close to giving up on cracking the tough nut that was Castiel Novak.  

Dean tended to let him be.  If he didn’t want to talk, he didn’t have to talk.  That was the man’s right.  And Dean sure as hell knew how difficult it could be to readjust to people after spending so much time on your own.  But just because he didn’t pepper him with questions or small talk every waking hour of the workday didn’t mean that he didn’t keep a close eye on the man.  It was difficult _not_ to.  Something about Cas captivated Dean’s attention.  It was like he had a sixth sense that was specially dedicated to letting him know (loudly) whenever the other man was about.  The hair raised on the back of his neck, or goosebumps pebbled his skin, or…

He was being stupid.  

But _damn_ if the guy couldn’t turn out a great mocha.

With an extra hand behind the counter, the days seemed to pass quicker.  There was less frantic scrambling in the morning, and around lunchtime, and Cas kept up a sedate, steady pace that Dean would have paid him anything to learn.  Charlie bid them an excited goodbye around seven, whirling out the door to get ready for a hot date and leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the shop.  The second the door closed behind her, the atmosphere seemed to thicken.  Dean absently realized that this was one of the first times the two of them had been alone together since he’d offered Cas the job.

“I’ll get kitchen if you get the front?” he asked.  Cas nodded and, without a word, went to the closet to grab a broom.  Dean watched him for a long moment as he began to sweep, gathering crumbs and ripped sugar packets into a neat little pile in the center of the floor.

“You, uh - doin’ okay, Cas?”

The words seemed to appear in the air.  Dean had no idea he’d even said them until a few minutes after they’d escaped his traitorous mouth.  He tried to ignore his blush as Cas glanced up, blue eyes inquisitive.  “Just - checking in.  It’s been a couple weeks, and I wanted to be sure - “

“My life has improved greatly since I have started working with you, Dean.”

“Oh.”  There was no reason he should be feeling as happy as he was, but - “Good.”

Cas just nodded and continued sweeping.

“Your, uh, living situation working out okay?”  _Why are you still talking?_

“Meg and I are… old friends,” Cas said, and _what the hell did that little pause mean?_   “She has always been remarkably kind to me.”

“‘Meg,’ huh?”

“Yes."

The thought of Cas and this mysterious ‘Meg’ was making Dean irrationally irritable.  Striding towards Cas, he snatched the broom out of his hands.  “Why don’t you head home for the night?” he suggested.

Cas glanced around, confused.  “There is still quite a bit to do - “

“I can handle it,” Dean said.  “You should go.  Spend time with Meg.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.  See you in the morning, Cas.”  And Dean began scratching at the floor with the broom in a way that probably damaged the polish.  By the time he looked up again, Castiel was gone.

It was his own damn fault, he thought, as he slogged his way through the rest of the chores.  Acting like a jealous child.  If this Meg had agreed to take Cas in, she was probably a very nice woman.  A very nice elderly woman.  With cats, probably.  And bowls of Werther’s Candies and those lace coasters people sometimes used and knick-knacks…

Yes.  Meg was probably a lovely elderly woman.  

That made him feel better as he finished sweeping the floor, de-crumbing the pastry case, wiping down the espresso machine and the counters, closing out the register...

It even took him longer than usual to prep the kitchen for the next day’s cooking - pierogis, he’d stupidly decided to try - and he was sitting in the uncomfortable kitchen chair peeling potatoes until he felt like his fingers were about to fall off.  Not wanting to risk seeing any Super coverage on the television, he entertained himself by humming to himself - first Led Zeppelin, then AC/DC… then, as ever, The Beatles.  _Hey, Jude… Don’t make it bad… Take a sad song…_

When he woke up, two hours later, the potato peeler was still in his hand and everything smelled like gas.

“Charlie…” he mumbled, blinking bleary eyes open.  _This is why I don’t let her mess around in the kitchen._   The smell of sulfur - rotting eggs - carbon monoxide - made him cough, then sneeze.

Then he remembered - Charlie had left hours ago.  

 _Shit_.  He pushed himself to his feet, weaving unsteadily.  His head felt foggy and light at the same time, and the world seemed to bend and bow on the edges of his vision.

The stove was the culprit.  Someone had blown the range top pilot lights out and turned the has on as far as it would go.  Coughing, he spun the knobs back -

They came off in his hand.

Fuck.  A dazed glance around revealed that the door to the storefront was closed - and so, so far away - and it was getting harder to concentrate now.  Every cell in his body was screaming at him to lay down, to go to sleep.  “Charlie!” he shouted as loud as he could - but his voice was starting to fail.  “Cas!  Cas!”  Frantically, he jammed the knobs back on the stove, but his hands were shaking too hard - one knob clattered to the ground, rolling underneath the oven.  The other caught and he was able to turn one burner off -

It wasn’t enough.  

Back door.

He dragged himself towards the back door, only staying upright by hauling himself along the countertop.  Numb fingers grabbed at the door handle -

It was locked.  Jammed.  From the outside.

With a dry sob, Dean slid to the ground.  He hammered his fists against the wood.  “Charlie!” he shouted, but now it was barely more than a whisper.  “Hey!”

What happened next could very well have been a hallucination - he’d certainly inhaled enough gas to mistrust pretty much anything his senses were telling him.  He was so out of it, in fact, that he could only stare in shock as a human fist _punched_ through the door itself.  The hand - bruised and bloody - flexed its fingers, then grabbed the edge of the hole and hauled.

There was a creaking-snapping-cracking sound -

And half the door was _wrenched_ outwards.  

Dean could only blink and cough stupidly, breathing lungfuls of clean, fresh air into his lungs as a figure stepped in from the alley.  It walked towards Dean and stopped right in front of him, staring down.

It was - whoever it was - was male, probably, in a long, tan coat and navy blue mask.  It was hard to concentrate much beyond that, what with the world going all wobbly and everything. 

Dean’s attention was captured by the blinding blue light that spread from the gashes in the man’s hands, blaring and fading and leaving new skin in their wake.

 _Super, a Super,_ Dean giggled to himself - and that was the last thought he had before the world decided to go away for a while and he tumbled into unconsciousness.

*** * ***

“Oof!”

A huge cardboard carrier of coffee landed on the counter next to Dean with a thunk.  Charlie staggered back, shaking out her arms.  “That’s the last one?” Dean asked.

She glared back at him.  “It better be,” she retorted.  “If I have to drag one more of those dumb-ass carriers around, my arms are gonna fall right out of their sockets.”

“You could get bionic replacements.”

That had come from Cas, of all people - Cas, who was calmly sliding Bobby’s sugary mocha across the counter.  _“Did he just_ joke _?”_ Charlie mouthed silently at Dean, who shrugged.  “That’s very Winter Soldier of you,” she said, nudging Cas.

“Who is - “ Cas began, but Charlie pressed a hand to his lips.

“Don’t,” she said.  “Don’t break my heart with whatever you’re about to say.”  She massaged her biceps and rolled her shoulders.  “Sam better appreciate the heck out of this.”

“After he helped us with the door, he gets whatever he wants,” Dean shot back.

And so yeah, he hadn’t told Charlie and Cas what had actually happened in the kitchen a week ago.  So what?  It would have freaked them out, and to be 100% honest, he wasn’t sure if he hadn’t dreamed it all anyway.  Because… while the last thing he remembers is doing a ladylike swoon on the kitchen floor, he woke up in his own bed.  And there was no way a guy who had just swallowed a metric ton of gas would have been able to walk himself home and tuck himself in like that.

So when he’d gotten the frantic call from Charlie the next morning - “Someone broke in the back, the door’s busted!” he’d just gone along with that story.  It seemed easier to believe than “Oh, yeah, I almost died, maybe, but a Super in a trench coat saved me, also maybe, also, I may have dreamed the whole thing?”

There were some conversations he didn't need to have.

The front door swung inwards, admitting a very frazzled looking Sam Winchester.  “Is this it?” he asked, words tripping over one another.  He was staring with a vaguely panicked expression at the six massive coffee carriers by the register.  

“This is it,” Dean replied.  “Just you, Sammy?  I thought this was what interns were for - coffee runs.”

His brother pushed his ridiculous hair off his forehead.  “Kevin’s out sick and the Mayor’s speech starts in ten.  If I’m not back by then - “

“Yeah, yeah - “ Dean hoisted two carriers in one hand, one in the other.  “Come on, let’s get you back to your little reporter pow-wow.  Unless - Cas, you wanna field trip?”

Castiel glanced up from the countertop he’d been polishing.  “You are going to see Mayor Adler give a speech?”

“Gonna be real thrilling.”

“I would prefer to stay here.”

“You got something against the Mayor?”

“I certainly didn’t vote for him.”  And there was that half-smile again.  Dean found himself smiling in response.

“Your loss,” he quipped, shouldering the front door open.  “C’mon, Sammy.  Let’s get that team of yours caffeinated.”

*** * ***

“So that’s Cas, huh?”

It took a few moments for Dean to process his brother’s question - he was focusing too hard on not spilling any coffee as he huffed and puffed the six blocks from the coffee shop to City Hall.  _What did Charlie put in this goddamn carriers?  Lead?_

“What do you mean?” he finally responded.  “‘Course that’s Cas.  You knew him before I did.”

“Yeah, I mean,” Sam said (and Dean was pleased to see a few drops of sweat roll down his health-conscious brother’s forehead), “I knew the guy who lived in your alley.  This guy isn’t really that guy.”

“He’s crashing with a friend these days.”

“And you gave him a job”

“What was I gonna do?”

“I’m not saying it’s bad, Dean - he seems like a really great guy.  And Jesus, for the amount you talk about him - “

“Shut up, Sammy.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Sam teased.  “I’m serious, he seems nice.”

“So what’s with the… _talking_ about it?”

“Just… you don’t know much about him.  And it’s not like you to trust people so easy, but it seems like you kinda… trust him.”  Sam huffed a sigh, wiping his forehead off on his sleeve.  “I just want to be sure you’re being careful.”

“You know I don’t have much honor left to protect, right?”

“You’re such a dick.”  Sam jostled Dean with his elbow, and Dean retaliated with a full-body push.  But then they were rounding the corner to the plaza outside City Hall, and Sam’s spine was straightening, shoulders leveling.  Before Dean’s eyes, his baby brother became Samuel Winchester, Professional Reporter, and he smiled through the rush of pride

The Amber City Chronicle was a small paper that was rapidly growing in circulation.  Sam’s photos had upped its popularity in the last few months, but it had been on the rise before that.  Being headquartered in one of the only cities in the United States with a chronic Superhero problem tended to give any publication a bit of a boost.  But their small origins meant that Dean knew pretty much everyone on the staff.  Sammy had been scurrying around that newsroom pretty much since he was old enough to string two sentences together.  An internship had turned into a copy editor position had turned into a staff writer/photographer position, and while the rest of the staff had expanded, the core group had remained the same.

“Winchester!” Jo Harvelle greeted him as he drew closer with the coffee carriers.  

“How’s things, Harvelle?” Dean shot back.  She darted forward and lifted two of the carriers out of his hands with an ease that was surprising for her small frame.  

“Be better once I get some of this in me.  You bring cups?” She smiled when he produced a plastic bag of cups, creamer, and sugar.  “You’re my favorite.”

“Charlie’ll be disappointed to hear that,” Dean shot back, ducking as she hurled a sugar packet at him.  “Watch it!”

“No spilling coffee on the camera equipment!” barked Ellen, Jo’s mother and the editor of the Amber City Chronicle.  

“Yes ma’am,” Dean and Jo chorused, exchanging glares like chastened children.  Mollified, Ellen poured herself a cup of steaming hot coffee and returned to her post, keeping a watchful eye on the front doors of City Hall.

“Word on the street is the Mayor’s gonna be addressing the return of the Renegade,” Sam muttered to Jo and Dean.  

Jo scoffed, her long blonde hair shaking down her back.  “It’s about time,” she said.  “It’s been - what?  Two weeks since he made his Triumphant Return?”

“Two weeks and three bombings,” Dean clarified.

And that was terrifying in and of itself.  Since the Renegade had returned from whatever bullshit exile he’d sent himself off on, his M.O. had gone through a nasty puberty.  Gone were the days of one-and-done appearances and bloodless break-ins.  He wasn’t contenting himself to exchanging blows only with the Archangel.  In the last few weeks, there had been a series of contained explosions throughout the city.  So far there hadn’t been any fatalities, but Dean had a horrible feeling that it was only a matter of time…

The Chronicle team was just finishing their first cups when the Mayor finally turned up.  Flanked on all sides by his security team, he slimed his way to the podium set on the steps of City Hall and took up a well-practiced stance, beaming a smile into the camera lenses that never really reached his eyes.

“Thank you for coming today,” Mayor Adler began, his nasal tone already scraping fingernails down Dean’s spine.  He grimaced, setting his cup down.  Something about Adler had always rubbed him the wrong way.  

 _“I certainly didn’t vote for him.”_   That was what Cas had said.  Dean snorted.  _Me neither._

“I’m sure you all have questions and concerns regarding the Renegade situation that threatens our city,” Adler continued.  “The damage, both to physical property and to our communal peace of mind is immeasurable, and I want you assure you all that we are doing everything in our power to ensure that this terrorist is brought to justice as soon as possible.  The Archangel is tracking him even as I speak - and I have every confidence that the Renegade will not be so lucky in his escape a second time.”

 _Ugh_.  Dean resisted the urge to pull a face.  Catching Jo’s eye, he pointed back towards Deja Brew. _Gonna go._  

She rolled her eyes at him.  _Lame_.

It was only a few yards to the edge of the plaza, but Dean made a quick detour to toss his paper coffee cup.  He was trying his hardest not to listen to the Mayor’s speech, but fragments of it snuck their way past the mental white noise barricade he’d erected.  “… must work together to defend ourselves…”  “… sacrifices may need to be made…”

“Not a fan of speeches?”

Dean froze.  He knew that voice.  He’d cringed at hearing it filter through the speakers of his television.  Slowly, knowing exactly what he was about to see and hating every bit of that certainty, Dean glanced up into the sparkling green eyes of the Archangel.

He was handsome.  Of course he was handsome.  But he was handsome in a cultivated way that did absolutely nothing for Dean.  There was no scruffiness - no messy hair, no stubble, no chapped lips, no bags under those eyes -

_Whoa there, cowboy.  
_

“I, uh - “ and dammit, his voice was squeaking.  “I gotta get back to work.”

“Where to?  I’ll give you a lift.”  Dean took a hurried step back - and the Archangel threw his head back in laughter.  “Joking!” he exclaimed.  “Don’t worry - I don’t go around sweeping strangers off their feet.”

“Uh-huh.”  That didn’t stop Dean from taking another step away from him.  

“I’m the Archangel,” said the Archangel, sticking out a hand to shake.  Dean regarded it hazily. _Is this real life?_

“I know,” he said.  Both hands remained stubbornly at his sides.

The Archangel tilted his head forward, prompting.  “Your name is…”

“Dean.  Uh.  Winchester.”  Against his better judgement, he shook the Archangel’s hand.

And that, of course, was when everything exploded.

*** * ***

When the smoke had cleared and everything had settled, it would be discovered that the bomb had taken off the top of the City Hall Tower and destroyed the massive bell that had tolled the half-hour every half-hour for the last two hundred years.  It would be reported that there were two wounded by debris - one of the Mayor’s bodyguards who had shoved Adler out of the way of a flying piece of marble and had suffered a concussion for his pains, and a local reporter named Joanna Beth Harvelle, who had hobbled away with a broken wrist and a bruised hip.

This act of domestic terrorism would, of course, be attributed to the Renegade, who had made a striking appearance soaring through the air above the plaza.  He’d actually managed to block out the sun with his wings at one point - very impressive staging.

But what everyone was talking about when all was said and done was not the Renegade - and it wasn’t the Archangel, either.

*** * ***

“Get Jo out of here!” Ellen roared to Dean over the deafening blare of screams and sirens that drowned the air.  Sam was somewhere in the melee with his camera, dodging and ducking through the crush of people in search of the perfect story, the perfect shot - idiot  -

Jo bit back something she would be denying was a whimper as Dean wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pressing her into her side.  Her wrist was obviously broken, already swelling up to three times its normal size, and she was hobbling with every other step.  “Stay close,” he murmured to her.

She shot him a teary glare.  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“That’s my girl.”  Smiling with a bravado he didn’t feel, he began to guide them away from the Chronicle’s base camp.  

 _Fucking Supers._   Fucking Supers and their fucking moronic feuds taking pot-shots at each other and getting innocent people hurt in the crossfire.  

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can, Dean -_

Another breathy whimper from Jo kept his brain from wandering too far into that particular memory.  “C’mon,” he said.  “Almost there - “

“Dean - “

Jo wasn’t paying him any attention.  Instead, her eyes were fixed to the roof of the Amber City Public Library,  a building that bordered the City Hall Plaza.  “Look,” she breathed, pointing with her uninjured hand.

There was a figure on the roof of the library - a man.  

In a trench coat.

And a blue mask.

“Holy crap,” muttered Dean.  

With steady hands, he raised something to his shoulder - to Dean’s eye, it looked like a rifle or a shotgun, but it was decked out and modified in ways he’d never seen before.

“What’s he gonna - “

The answer came immediately as the man pulled a trigger.  Seconds later, something _shattered_ the air above the Renegade, shredding one of his mechanical wings into pieces.  The Supervillain tumbled towards the ground, his remaining wing flapping and straining to slow his descent -

Jo let out a whoop that split Dean’s eardrum.  “Did you see that?” she shouted.  “Did you see that?!  Who is that guy?”

Dean couldn’t respond - his brain was still skittering in circles - _blue mask - trench coat - back in the kitchen -_

The Archangel wasn’t joining in the cheers.  His cold green eyes were fixed steadily on the man in the trench coat - and even though it was hard to tell for sure at this distance, Dean kinda thought he looked like he wanted to kill him.  

The Renegade hit the ground with a massive crash, wings and suit sending up sparks.  By the time everyone - including the Archangel - glanced back, the man on the roof was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

“They’re calling him ‘The Fallen’.”

Charlie’s cheeks were flushed from the wine in her system, but her eyes were bright and focused.  She leaned across the table, one hand braced against the surface, the other one wrapped tightly around the coffee mug of store-brand Table Red.  Grinning, she slugged back another mouthful.

“The only one doing any Falling was the Renegade.”  Jo laughed at her own joke, but broke off, wincing, when the movement jogged her broken wrist.

According to Dean, the reporter had made record time through the Amber City ER.  Her mother, it turned out, was feared and respected across the city, and once Dr. Garth Fitzgerald had heard that Joanna Beth Harvelle was the most recent victim of the Renegade’s attacks, he’d sent out a cavalcade of nurses, and the hospital’s very best wheelchair.  

“They tried to keep her overnight, case she’d hit her head or something,” Dean had told Castiel, mirth bubbling in his voice, “and she damn near bit Garth’s ear off.  I never seen a man back out of an exam room so fast.”

“I’m fine,” Jo had mumbled to him resentfully.  Charlie hadn’t said anything, but Castiel could not miss the way that she buzzed about the reporter, showering her with worried attention until Jo politely suggested she go get some wine so that they all could get drunk.

“I just can’t believe there’s another Super in town and none of us even knew he was coming,” Charlie marveled, pouring another glug of wine into her cup.  She offered the bottle to Castiel, who waved it away - it took much more than a few glasses of wine to have any kind of effect on them, and he did not trust his acting abilities enough to convince them otherwise.  “I mean, the Archangel is all about, you know.  Presentation.  Shiny teeth and ‘Ha-HA!’ and all that.”  She shrugged, setting the bottle back down a little unsteadily.  “Figured another Superhero would be like him.”

“Who even says he’s a hero?” Jo asked grumpily.  She had tried to make a grab for the bottle herself earlier in the evening, until Dean and Castiel had both reminded her that heavy-duty painkillers and alcohol were not a match made in heaven.  “Could be a villain.”

“He shot down the Renegade.”

“Yeah, but the Archangel didn’t seem too pleased to see him, did he?”  Jo turned to Castiel and Dean.  “What do you guys think?”

“Cas didn’t even see him in action,” Charlie cut in before Castiel could even open his mouth.  “He got stuck on a milk run.”

“Yes,” Castiel said as solemnly as he could manage.  “By the time I returned, I’m afraid that it was all over.  Though,” he continued, “I did see some of the ‘re-plays’ later on television.” 

It surprised him how easily the lying came.  When he was the Renegade, lies had been unnecessary.  The only person in his life had been Meg, and she had been a knowing partner in his fight against the Archangel.  Now he sat at a table of - acquaintances?  coworkers?  friends? - and spewed lies as smoothly as the truth.  _Learning new things every day,_ he thought in a voice that was suspiciously similar to Meg’s.

“Ugh, Cas,” Charlie scoffed, but her tone was lighthearted.  She nudged him heavily with her shoulder.  “What about you, Dean?  Is the Fallen a Superhero or Supervillain?”

It was then that Castiel realized Dean hadn’t said a word since the topic of the Fallen (and really, couldn’t the media do better than that?  Castiel had half a mind to out himself, if only to regain the title of Renegade.  It had been cooler.) had first been broached.  The man was staring moodily at the laminate surface of the table, making rings with the condensation on the outside of his beer bottle.  

“Dunno,” Dean finally said, draining the last of his beer.

“What?” Jo cackled.  “No rant about how useless Supers are?  Where’s the anger, Dean?  After the day you just had, I thought I could mark you down for at least a little bit of vitriol.”

Dean rolled his eyes and opened another beer.  Castiel watched the man’s hands as he did so, clever fingers working the top off the bottle with an audible hiss, and tried not to feel as bubbly inside as the beer in Dean’s hands.  “Jury’s just… still out,” Dean said.  “That’s all.”

Castiel ducked his head a bit to hide the small smile curving his lips.  The thought that Dean “I Don’t Fuck With Supers” Winchester was leaving the jury out on the Fallen was… interesting news.  He felt hope flare for a moment in his chest - _could I tell him?  Should I -_

Absolutely not.

For one thing, Dean had yet to bring up the carbon monoxide poisoning incident of about a week ago.  Charlie seemed to have bought his story of the mysterious break-in - they had replaced the door with a minimum of hassle.  And Dean had definitely not mentioned the enigmatic figure who had pulled him from the kitchen to safety.  Which, Castiel had to admit, was smart.  The circumstances behind the gas leak were, by all indications, less-than-innocent.  Dean was meticulous about his kitchen - he was not the kind of person to leave burners on, much less yank the knobs off the stove.  

But by the time Castiel had managed to wrangle Dean back to his apartment, dumped him into his bed, and made it back to the cafe, any and all signs of malicious tampering had dissipated along with the gas itself.  And maybe he had been a little slow and distracted (because it turned out that Dean, when drugged up on gas fumes, was very clingy and affectionate, and had a remarkable talent for burrowing hands underneath hemlines in search of warmth and comfort), but he was reasonably sure his search of the cafe’s exterior had been thorough.

It was one thing to rescue Dean Winchester from certain death.  It was quite another to stand up in the middle of Deja Brew and announce that he was a Super - and not just any Super, but the Renegade (former) and the Fallen (present, apparently).

His phone buzzed suddenly, startling him so much that he nearly knocked his mug off the table.  _MEG,_ the caller ID flashed at him.  “Excuse me,” he mumbled, pushing back and ducking into the kitchen.

He tried not to feel Dean’s gaze boring between his shoulder blades as he retreated.

“Were you planning on checking in?  Ever?”

Meg started talking as soon as he swiped “Accept” on the phone screen.  Her voice, normally smooth and sardonic, was tight and agitated.  Castiel winced.

“I’ve had something of a busy afternoon.”

“You think?  I saw how busy on the news.”  There was a faint scuffing sound in the background - boot heels on cement, Castiel thought absently.  Meg was pacing.  “You can’t just tell me you’re making your Grand Debut, then disappear.  I thought you might be - I thought - ”

She broke off there, huffing an unsteady sigh.  Castiel felt regret clench in his chest.  “I am sorry,” he said.

“Yeah, well - yeah, okay.”  She laughed a little there, bitter.  “You should’a seen the look on the Archangel’s face when you took out the Renegade, Blue-Eyes.  Downright vengeful.  I think that might’a been the first time he’s been pissed to have news crews around one of his Events - footage of that nasty scowl’s been eating up the air waves.”

A crack of laughter from the cafe floor drew his attention.  “Mmm.”

“Anyway,” Meg continued.  “You gotta get your ass back here.  I think I’ve figured something out - something big-time - and I need to show it to you.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“Don’t be a moron, Clarence.  I’ll be waiting up.”

The click of the call ending was all the goodbye she gave him.  He pocketed the cell, staring blankly at the dent in the far wall, where the kicked-in back door had taken a chip out of the plaster.  Meg had ‘figured something out’ - she’d been working.  And he’d been sitting around drinking wine with -

\- With Dean.  Letting himself get distracted.  _Damn_.

Slowly, Castiel made his way back out onto the cafe floor.  The trio was still there, sitting around the table, chatting in low voices about God-knew-what.  He took a moment to study their faces from his quiet vantage point near the kitchen: Jo, his newest acquaintance, a fierceness burning in her face, subsuming any of the pain she might still be in from her wrist.  Charlie, all bright wonder and glee, with an energy that bordered nervous.  And Dean - who was staring back at Castiel now, giving him a soft smile  -

“I have to go,” Castiel blurted.

Jo and Charlie’s heads whipped up to look at him.  “Oh,” Charlie said, sounding surprised.  “Um - okay.”

“Thank you for - the wine,” Castiel stammered.  “I will be in tomorrow morning to open.”

“Don’t do long goodbyes, huh?” Jo drawled, stretching her legs out onto Castiel’s abandoned chair.

“I am - tired,” Castiel managed.  “It has been a long day.  Unless - do you need my help cleaning up around here before I go?”

“Don’t be silly,” Charlie assured him.  “Get out of here.  We’ll see you tomorrow.”  And with that, she jumped to her feet and skipped around the table towards him, wrapping her arms around him in a hug that seemed too large for her tiny frame.  “Thanks for everything today,” she murmured.

It took Castiel a bit too long to catch on, but he did, eventually, squeezing her back.  “Of course.  Until tomorrow.”

He was nearly at the front door when Dean’s voice drifted after him.  “I’ll walk you home.”

Castiel turned.  The other man was already standing, gathering his jacket in his arms.  “You don’t need to - ”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugged.  “There’s rogue Supers around, apparently, and Bobby’ll flip if you get murdered without teaching me how to do a mocha the way he likes it.”  Castiel just stared at him as Dean walked past him, pushing through the front door.  He continued to stare as Dean turned back to face him, the moonlight highlighting his freckles.  “You comin’, Cas?”

Charlie and Jo were pointedly ignoring this, immersing themselves in too-loud conversation with one another.  There was nothing left for Castiel to do but nod mutely and follow Dean out into the darkness.

*** * ***

It was cold and windy - much colder and windier than September in Amber City had any right to be.  Castiel shivered, folding his arms across his chest and tucking his hands into his armpits.

“You cold?”

Dean was shooting him a glance sidelong, almost as though he didn’t want to make total eye contact.  Castiel shrugged.  “I’m fine.”

“I thought you had a jacket.”

“I did,” Castiel replied.  “But I think I forgot it at the cafe.”

Dean glanced back over his shoulder.  “We could - ”

“We are almost back to Meg’s house,” Castiel said, cutting him off.  “It’s fine.  I’ll get it in the morning.”  When Dean still hesitated, Castiel laughed a little.  “Dean.  I was homeless for months - I can handle a short walk without a coat.”

“If you get sick, Charlie’s gonna kill me,” Dean muttered.

“Then I’d better not get sick.”

They continued on in silence for a few moments, their feet crunching the dried leaves against the sidewalk.  The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the street lamps were doing their best to paint the asphalt yellow.  But even in a place as busy as Amber City, there were still patches of deep shadow - darkness that could hide anything.  Castiel kept wary eyes on these patches as the two men passed.  It took him a moment to realize that Dean was doing the same.

“Thank you for walking with me,” Castiel finally said.  “But how am I supposed to feel about you getting back on your own?”

“Eh,” Dean flapped a hand.  “I can take care of myself.  And anyway, if I get into real trouble, maybe the Fallen will save me.”

This last was uttered with an anvil’s worth of sarcasm, but -

_“Dunno… what happened,” Dean had mumbled into the fabric of Castiel’s coat.  He was heavy with carbon monoxide poisoning, and near-unconscious.  “Dunno…”_

_Castiel didn’t respond.  For one thing, he did not want to risk Dean recognizing his voice, and for another… it was hard to know what to say, especially with the way Dean was clinging to him like a frightened child._

_Instead, he fumbled Dean’s keys out of his pocket and unlocked the apartment door, half-carrying and half-dragging the other man inside.  Dean’s eyes had focused blearily on him as Castiel moved him towards the bedroom._

_“How’d’you know where I live?” he’d asked, far sharper than Castiel would have liked.  Then - “How’d’you know where my bedroom is?”  Castiel kept his mouth shut, depositing Dean on the mattress.  “Fucking Supers,” Dean had grumbled, burying his face in the pillows._

_And Castiel couldn’t argue with that.  He turned to the door, ready to make his retreat.  But on his way out, he thought he heard Dean mumble “thanks, man,” into the surface of his mattress._

_Castiel had fought a smile the entire trip back to Deja Brew._

“I know you expressed… ambivalence towards him back at the cafe,” Castiel said.  “I have to ask - and don’t feel in any way that you need to answer - why you feel such anger towards the Archangel and the Renegade and - Supers in general?”

Dean was silent for a long moment after that.  When Castiel glanced over at him, he saw the other man frowning at the ground in concentration, almost as though he was considering each individual step with care.  He remained quiet for an uncomfortably long time - Castiel was almost at the point of retracting the question and begging him to think no more of it.  But as they the corner to Meg’s street, Dean huffed a sigh and looked up again.

“Supers are bullies,” he said.  “Villains or Heroes - they run around the city like they own it, and they don’t answer to anybody.  I don’t - I’m not a fan of that.  Of people like that.  In general.”  He smiled painfully.  “I mean, you saw me around Crowley and Raphael, and those were just… guys.  Just men.  They can’t, like, laser-beam me in the head with their eyes or anything.”  He shrugged, scuffing a heel along the sidewalk.  “The Fallen stood up to both the Renegade and the Archangel.  And he - doesn’t seem to want recognition.  That means something, I guess.”

“The Renegade never wanted recognition before,” Castiel said, voice harsher than he’d intended.

“What, before the Harrison Building?  C’mon, Cas.”  Dean rolled his eyes.  “Flying around in the middle of the day - when did he ever do anything for anybody but himself?  Whatever that mission of his was… it wasn’t helping folks.  He showed up, flashed his wings around a little, and got his ass handed to him by the Archangel.  Wash, rinse, repeat.”

Castiel’s mouth was hanging open - to hear the summary of his life’s work from Dean’s lips was wrenching.  “I don’t think he ever saw it that way,” Castiel managed.

“Maybe not,” Dean said.  “That’s how I see it, anyhow.  Is this you?”

Castiel hadn’t realized that they were standing in front of Meg’s house until Dean jerked his head towards the warm porch lights.  “Yes,” Castiel said.  “Um.  Thank you.  For - walking me back.  Are you sure I can’t call you a cab or - ”

“Hey, Clarence!”  

Meg was standing in the front door now, her silhouette tense and impatient.  “Get your ass in here, we got shit to do.”

Castiel shot an apologetic look at Dean, who was glaring at Meg’s shadowy form with obvious distaste.  “Thought she’d be older,” Dean muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothin’, Cas.  I’ll, uh - ”

And finally their eyes were meeting - for the first time on this entire walk home.  For a slightly hysterical moment, Castiel wondered if he should ask whether this had been a date - but of course it hadn’t, it had been a fifteen-minute walk home.  He couldn’t be faulted for having such ridiculous notions, not when there seemed to be pure electricity running through his veins - or maybe that was his powers, humming from head to toe, burning out of his eyes and his mouth, reaching for Dean - and Dean was swaying forward slightly, gaze dropping to Castiel’s lips -

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dean’s voice was scratchy and hoarse.  Castiel’s spine snapped upright.  The lightning drained out of the moment.

“Yes,” he responded.  Then, in a fit of madness, he extended a hand.  To shake?  Get yourself together, Castiel.

But Dean just laughed and took the hand.  “You’re a weird one, man.”  His palms were dry and warm, and Castiel shook his hand for maybe too long before Meg’s muttered “Ugh” had him dropping it like a live cobra.

It wasn’t until he was safely inside Meg’s house with the door locked behind him that he realized he’d forgotten to say goodnight.

*** * ***

In the weeks since Castiel had learned that the Renegade had returned without him, he and Meg had converted the basement beneath her small bungalow into an impressively high-tech bunker.  A solid weekend had been spent lugging equipment up and down stairs, in small boxes marked things like “BATHROOM” and “CLEANING SUPPLIES”.  A neighbor had patted Castiel’s cheek as he’d gone out to Meg’s car for another load of circuit-boards/“KITCHEN”.  “It’s so wonderful to see a nice young couple making their way in the world,” she’d cooed to him.   He’d blinked and nodded, and tried to ignore Meg’s shout from the porch (“Come on, Clarence!  Let’s go move some furniture around!”)

Now he stomped down the stairs into the basement, Meg trailing behind him.  He’d never admit it to her, but he far preferred this current iteration of his hide-out to the previous.  For one thing, he didn’t need to travel to a warehouse in the urine-scented part of town to access it.  For another thing, because it was located in Meg’s house, she’d insisted on being the one to furnish it.  Cushy sofas and couches, a solid coffee table, and a television that wasn’t even intended to show schematics of the city or stream data from tapped computers in City Hall.  Meg had a nasty reality TV addiction, and she refused to miss an episode of “The Bachelorette”, even for a Super emergency.

“I thought you were gonna plant one on him,” she cackled after Castiel as they descended.  “You were giving him the mack-on-me eyes, it was clear as day.”

“I was not.”

“Please.  Chemistry is obviously not your strongest subject.”

“We’re done speaking about this.”  Castiel hit the basement floor at a fast stride, making for the bank of computers set against the far wall.  “What did you have to show me?”

“Always such a stickler,” Meg grumbled.  “Okay, okay.  Wait up a sec - with your freakishly long legs - ”  She managed to slip past him, into the squashy leather chair she used as her command center.  Leaning forward, she punched a few seemingly-random buttons on the console, which lit up with a map of Amber City.  “Check this out.”

He stared blankly at the screen for a moment.  “What am I looking at.”

“The pattern, come on - I’m pointing right at it.”

Castiel squinted, tilting his head.  The city had been shaded in different colors - most of it a vibrant blue, but a few chunks of it had been rendered a sickly yellow.  In the yellow regions, a few red arrows stood out.  “Meg…”

“Your brain’s obviously still in Lover-Boy’s pants out there.  Fine.”  She stood up so she could point out the areas on the screen easier.  “Blue’s normal, right?  Regular people owning regular property in a more-or-less regular city.  Yellow, though…” she grimaced.  “That’s what our favorite Mayor Adler has his sticky fingers on.”

“He’s buying up sections of the city.”

“Ding-ding.”

“Then what do the red arrows mean?”

Meg turned, leaning back against the desk and fixing Castiel with an uncommonly solemn expression.  “You know how, since we lost the suit, the Renegade’s been making random attacks across the city?  Demolishing buildings, that sorta lovely thing?”  Castiel nodded.  “That’s them,” Meg continued, jabbing at one of the arrows.  “I cross-referenced with the deed history of the properties…”

“It looks like Mayor Adler owns all the attack sites,” Castiel observed.

“He does now,” Meg clarified.  “Before the Renegade came calling - the owners were apparently dragging their heels on giving their properties over to the City.  The barbershop owner I talked to told me he sent goons around almost every goddamn day with the offer.  The only day they didn’t show was the day the Renegade paid them a visit.”

Castiel felt cold.  “The Mayor’s been pressuring Dean to sell the cafe,” he whispered.  

“I know.”  Meg shrugged when he looked sharply up at him.  “It fits the blast-radius, Blue-Eyes.  Adler’s trying to connect these two segments - whatever he has in mind for this circle of city-scape - well, I dunno, but he doesn’t give much of a crap if someone gets hurt or dead along the way.”

He was halfway to the staircase before Meg got in his way.  “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to warn Dean.”

“And tell him what?”

“That he is painting a target on his forehead by continuing to face down the Mayor like this.”

“You’re not getting me.  Tell him _what_ , Castiel?  How’re you gonna explain that you know this?  You either come out sounding like a crazy person - or you spill your identity.  And from what you’ve told me about Dreamy Dean, he doesn’t seem like he’d be too happy to find out he’s been harboring a Super this whole time.”  She gripped his biceps with both hands, forcing him to look down at her.  “More than that - we don’t even know what’s going on yet.  Why does Adler want this land?  Why is he working with the Archangel?  And who the hell is inside your Renegade suit?  Before you go dragging other people into this nutso mess, don’t you think we should get it sorted out a little?”  Her big brown eyes bored into him, and she quirked a sad little smile.  “You know I’m right, don’tcha?”

Something painful flickered in her gaze as he yanked back from her.  “I know," he said.  "That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

*** * ***

He’d lain in bed for a solid half-hour before giving up on sleep altogether and rummaging in the back of his closet for his new suit.  It was simple - starting from scratch, he and Meg hadn’t had the money or means for the shiny frills of the Renegade suit - but he felt far more comfortable in it than he ever had as the Renegade.

For one thing, the Fallen wasn't pounds and pounds of metal armor and wings.  The Fallen was UnderArmor-style sports gear, a tan coat, and a blue mask.  And a couple of weapons strapped strategically around his torso, arms, and legs, because he wasn't a complete moron.

Out here, dashing along the rooftops in the night, the change from Renegade to Fallen didn't seem bad at all.  The Renegade could never have done this.  He would have made too much damn noise, clanging around, glancing over his shoulder perpetually for the Archangel to come swooping out of the sky.

He didn’t bother asking himself why he was out here.  Dean’s words were still bouncing around in his skull - that the Renegade had never been helping people, only ever helping himself.  And now Castiel couldn’t warn Dean or save Dean, and so - here he was, flying through the night, headed, as always, back towards Deja Brew.

The thing about muggings were that they sounded unmistakeable.  The scuffling that filtered up from an alley below, mixed with the soft cry of pain as fist met flesh, had Castiel peering over the edge of the building.  In the space between a greasy Chinese restaurant and an abandoned bookstore, he saw a couple of large men closing in around a teenage boy.  One of them made a grab for the boy’s backpack, but the boy - already doubled over after a punch to the stomach - flinched away.

“Fucking idiot,” rumbled one of the muggers, a man with a massive mangled dragon tattoo.  “Hold him.”  His friend, a muscle-bound troll of a man, wrapped meaty hands around the boy’s arms, holding him in place as Tattoo drew his fist back for a punch.

Castiel never made a sound as he dropped into the alley behind him.  The boy’s eyes widened in recognition and alarm, but he barely had time to register this - he was busy wrapping a hand around Tattoo’s wrist and wrenching it up behind his back.  The man yelped in pain, arching against the pressure, but Castiel stood firm.  He pressed a latch in the wrist sheath that he and Meg had designed, catching the blade that slid into his palm and pressing it to the mugger’s throat.

“Let the boy go,” he growled as low as he could.

Muscles just stared at him, jaw hanging loose.  Castiel pressed the knife firmer into Tattoo’s throat, feeling the skin give way beneath the blade.  A thin stream of blood made its way from the nick to the man’s collar.  “I said - ” Castiel began, but the boy was way ahead of him, wrenching himself out of Muscle’s slackened grip and making a dash for the mouth of the alley.  He paused just behind Castiel, turning back for a moment.   “Get help!” Castiel gritted over his shoulder to him.

“A- Are you the Fallen?” the boy asked.  Castiel nodded - just barely, and he heard the smile in the boy’s voice as he muttered “Cool!”

The moment of distraction was his undoing, however, because Muscles decided to take his chances with his friend’s life.  He made a lunge for Castiel’s knife at the same moment that Tattoo brought his hands up under Castiel’s arm, forcing it outwards.  He stumbled backwards, the knife clattering to the slimy concrete.  

Tattoo was on him in a second, landing a shoulder to Castiel’s chest that left him gasping for breath, then a punch to the stomach that sent him sprawling to the ground.  He opened his eyes against the pain just in time to see Muscles tromping towards him, holding his knife.  He handed it to Tattoo, keeping his dim eyes fixed on Castiel.

“Buddy,” Tattoo sneered, crouching above Castiel.  “This is why you don’t get involved.”

The man had good aim.  The knife pierced straight through what Castiel reckoned was his large intestine, burying the tip in the concrete behind him.  He gasped, agony shooting through him like a lance, lighting him up from head to toe.  He was warm, suddenly - but no, that was just his blood, seeping from the gash in his middle.

Tattoo straightened, smiling down at him.  “Darwin in action,” he scoffed.  “Idiot.”

It took every ounce of strength Castiel had to push himself into a sitting position.  “You wanna talk Darwin,” he slurred.  “Watch this.”  

One bloody hand wrapped around the knife handle - then the other.  Then - and this was no fun at all - he slid the blade from his stomach.  Bright blue light _screamed_ from the wound, lighting every unattractive inch of the alley and the men inside it.  He stood - and he could taste the blood on his teeth now, he must look like a monster - eyes fixed vengefully on the terrified muggers.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Tattoo whispered.  Muscles made the sign of the cross.

“Guess again.”  And he threw the knife, which lodged in Tattoo’s shoulder.  The man yelped, clutching the wound, but Castiel was there already, staggering into his space, wrenching the knife free.  He could hear sirens headed their way, blue-and-red strobing joining the silver-blue light of his healing.  Whirling, he scanned the alley for Muscles - and caught sight of his retreating back as he beat a hasty retreat out of the alley.  Something - someone - rammed his shoulder, spinning him.  That was Tattoo, following his friend as fast as he could while cursing and holding onto his seeping shoulder.

He should follow them - go after them, get away - but the healing process was too slow.  Castiel stumbled, dropping to his knees, hearing the knife skitter from his grasp once more. 

Everything hurt and the world was turning too fast.  He couldn’t breathe.  Gasping, he tore off his mask, though that didn’t seem to help much.  He pressed a hand against his stomach, trying to feel the edges of the wound, and nearly passed out in the process.

“Mr. Fallen?”

A head appeared in the alley mouth - the boy from before.  “Are you okay?”

“Go away,” Castiel grated, trying and failing to push himself back to his feet.

“I found help,” the boy continued, unperturbed.  Two sets of footsteps made their way down the alley towards him and Castiel shrunk back as far as he could against the wall.  “And she got the cops and - ”

“Go away - ”

A low female voice said something to the boy that Castiel didn’t understand, but a second later he heard the boy’s sneakers pound the pavement back out to the street.  The woman, though, didn’t slow in her approach.  Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look at her.

“Oh my God.”

Every cell in Castiel’s body froze.  He recognized that voice.

He cracked his eyelids open, peering up at the woman - the woman who was still illuminated in the fading blue brilliance of his healing.  

Charlie.

Gaping down at him.

A bundle in her arms that looked suspiciously like Castiel’s missing jacket.  

Her mouth opened.  Closed.  Opened again.

“Cas?!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A (shitty) (or not) day in the life of Dean Winchester.

_Dean Winchester is a fucking idiot._

Over and over again, running through his head -

_Dean Winchester is a fucking idiot._

After all, it would _take_ a fucking idiot not to pick up on the massive clues that Cas had been putting down.  The image of those big blue eyes blinking at him in the moonlight - soft and discerning.  The way he’d leaned closer to him.  The way his lips had parted.  The way the man goddamn _smelled_.  

And he’d said - what?  Not, “Hell yeah, Cas, let’s do this thing.”  Not, “I have maybe been fantasizing about you ever since you started working at Deja Brew.”  Not even, “I am all in, buddy, but let’s maybe get a burger or something before we jump each other’s bones?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

_I’ll see you tomorrow._

Ugh.

_Dean Winchester is a fucking idiot._

But now he was _thinking_ about it - the way Cas had looked in the light of the street lamps, the heat that radiated from his skin, even though the asshole had walked out of the cafe without his jacket.  The way he moved, with that feline grace - and Dean knew his was strong, he’d seem him take a punch - seen him take a goddamn blackjack to the rib-cage like it was almost nothing.

“Fuck,” he hissed between his teeth, glaring up at the spackled white of his bedroom ceiling.  His pajama pants were getting obnoxiously tight as he replayed their moronic goodbye over and over in his mind.  He shifted, intending to relieve some of the building pressure, but instead just feeling the friction of skin-on-soft-cotton in every cell of his body.

What if his head wasn’t so completely up his own ass?  Would he have had the balls to - do what?  To lean into Cas’s lean?  To push his lips against the other man’s?  How would Cas kiss?  He was a quiet guy, but the quiet ones were, in Dean’s experience, some of the kinkiest in bed.  

With a groan, he pushed his hand past the elastic band of his pajama pants and wrapped a hand around himself.  He wasn’t rock-hard, not yet, but a few light strokes brought him there.

Cas would be a biter.  Dean could almost feel him nipping at his lips, wrapping his hands in Dean’s shirt and pulling him as close as he could.  And he’d bury his hands in Cas’s hair and tilt his head back, far enough to bite a line of kisses down the tan column of Castiel’s throat.  He wanted to mark Cas up - enough so that the petite dark-haired woman who'd smirked at him from the front porch would know to back the fuck off.  The nonexistent sound of Cas’s groans echoed in his ears, and he sped up his fist in response, hips bucking off the bed to fuck his fist faster, harder -

_“Dean,”_ he heard his imaginary Cas whisper as, in his mind, Dean grabbed Cas’s belt loops and ground their hips together.  _“Dean, Dean, oh my God - ”_

The muffled shout that tore itself from Dean’s throat as he came could probably have been heard by people in the next state - and this even after he nearly bit a hunk of flesh from his forearm in his struggle to keep quiet.

* * *

It was a text from Sammy that woke him the next morning - he’d slept through the first notification, and now his phone was buzzing like a bee on Adderol every few minutes.  With a grumble, he flipped over and fumbled it from his nightstand.

_6:30pm?_ was the simple message.

Dean blinked stupidly at it for a solid thirty seconds before realization hit him like an icy ocean wave.  Guilt followed heavy on realization’s heels - how could he have forgotten what day it was?  So wrapped up in his own nonexistent love life - in his own libido - that it had totally slipped his mind.

_I’ll be there,_ he texted back.  

Sam’s response was almost immediate.  _Bring pie._

He was surprised by his own laughter.  That small moment of mirth gave him the strength to drag himself out of bed, into a pair of worn-in old jeans and a henley that smelled like a bakery, and down the stairs to the street.

How long had he lain in bed, coming down from his post-orgasmic high last night before slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep?  Too long.  At first, his mind had been blissfully empty of everything except the lingering images of Cas in a series of increasingly compromising positions.  After that, he’d started to feel a little… creepy.  It wasn’t exactly kosher to be fantasizing about your employees that way, right?  Especially not ones you barely knew anything about - guys who were two steps away from being homeless.  The sexual harassment lawsuits alone…

His feet carried him towards work without his brain having to do much active steering, which was good because between what day it was and his slip-up with Cas the night before, his brain would probably have driven him right into an open manhole.  He wouldn’t have exactly objected to more of a heads-up, though, when he rounded the corner and ran nearly smack-dab into the back of an orange-vested construction worker.

“Sorry - ” Dean muttered to the glaring man, which was quickly followed by a “what the hell is going on?”

Because half the street’s asphalt was a rocky minefield, torn up by the massive steel machines that seemed to have descended overnight.  Even the sidewalk was a shambles - a really unmanly little skip was the only thing that saved Dean from what would have been a shitty sprained ankle.

The construction worker didn’t seem all that jazzed on answering any of Dean’s demands, though, given the fact that he was already halfway across the street.  “Hey!” Dean shouted after him.  “What the hell’s going - ”

“Such a racket, don’t you think?”

Of course.

The thing about Fergus Crowley was that he never seemed to walk or drive anywhere - he materialized.  Nothing particularly dramatic, it was just that one minute you’d be carrying on with your life, and the next minute you’d be dealing with an obnoxious Cockney asshole who collected secrets like nuclear launch codes.  Dean knew that it was totally batshit to wonder whether he actually was teleporting, but then again, they did live in a world where people could sometimes fly, so…

And yes, when he turned around, Crowley was watching him levelly, his habitual smirk curving his mouth.  Raphael lurked behind him, his perpetual angry shadow.  Dean gritted his teeth - if he punched either man, he’d probably get a solid beat-down for his pains.  Not to mention the inevitable legal action that he couldn’t afford.

“You behind this?” he managed.

“Of course not!” Crowley replied, fake surprise coloring his words.  “This is a municipal project.  The streets in this part of town are nearly post-apocalyptic.”

“They were resurfaced a year ago.”

“And now they’re being resurfaced again,” Raphael rumbled.

Dean scanned the construction carnage again, mostly in an effort to calm his temper.  It didn’t work.  The block had been blocked off - auto traffic was nonexistent, and with the ripped-up sidewalks, they wouldn’t be getting much foot traffic either.  The constant thunder of machinery was already giving him a headache, and it didn’t seem like it would be stopping any time soon.

“You need a permit for this kinda thing,” he tried.

He hadn’t really thought this would work, so his heart didn’t sink that much when Crowley produced a folded paper from the inside pocket of his black coat with a grin.  “Expedited and signed by Mayor Adler himself,” he said.

“How long is this gonna be happening?”  He didn’t really want to know the answer, but -

“However long it takes,” Raphael replied.

“Once again,” Crowley said, “I encourage you to consider the Mayor’s offer.  Surely it won’t be easy to operate a business such as yours under these… conditions.”

This was punctuated by a massive THUNK as one of the machines dumped a slab of concrete the size of a Toyota onto the sidewalk.  Dean closed his eyes, willing his temper down.  It was all too much - the lack of sleep, the two dickwads in front of him, the anniversary of -

“Get outta my way.”  He brushed past them, marching towards the cafe.

“Thought you were a smarter man than this, Winchester,” Crowley called after him.

“Yeah, well, you thought wrong,” Dean muttered under his breath.

The sign in the cafe window was flipped to OPEN when he pushed through the front door, but Charlie was nowhere in sight.  "Charlie?" Dean called, shucking his jacket and hanging it up behind the register.  "Cas?"

No response.  Dean poked his head in the kitchen to investigate and found it empty.  Frowning, he pulled his phone from his pocket and hit speed-dial 4.

Charlie picked up on the third ring.  "Where the hell are you?" Dean asked without waiting for her greeting.  "Crowley and Raphael are turning our street into the end of Transformers 3, and you didn't even give me a heads-up?"

"What?"  Charlie sounded surprised.  "They're doing what?"

Dean paused.  "You're not here, are you?"

"Not yet, sorry."

"Then why is everything... oh."  Cas had just slipped in the back door, an empty trash can in his hands.  "Hey, Cas."

"Cas is there?" Charlie asked sharply. 

"Yeah," Dean said, mouthing an _it's Charlie_ at Cas.  The other man just nodded, face a study in impassivity. 

"Huh."  Silence as Charlie seemed to consider something.  "Um.  Okay.  I'm actually - uh.  Not feeling so hot.  I might take a sick day."

"Did you get drunk with Jo last night?  Is this a hangover?"

"No, alright?  No, I just - I'll see you tomorrow, Dean."  With a _click_ , the line was severed.

Dean stared at his phone for a long moment, brain starting to form the first words of a tirade about flaky business partners.  "Dick move, Bradbury," he muttered, pocketing the phone. Glancing over at Cas, he explained, "She's not coming in today."

"Oh," Cas said, putting the trash can back.  Dean watched him wordlessly for a moment, feeling the back of his neck flush hot.  Flashes of the night before rocketed through his brain - leaning in to Cas, the way his cheeks had pinked with the cold... the way Dean had unceremoniously jerked off to all of it afterwards...

Goddammit.

"About last night - " Dean began.

"Yes?"

"I was - it wasn't - "  he sighed.  "Are you - are we cool?"

Cas regarded him levelly for a long beat.  "Of course," he replied.

"Okay. Um."  _Do you want to go out sometime?  Do you want to stay_ in _sometime?_

The laser-gun sound from the front of the cafe interrupted his pathetic train of thought.  "Customer," he croaked. 

Cas nodded calmly.  "I'll see to them."  And he disappeared from the kitchen.

Dean sagged against the counter, defeated.  _Dean Winchester is a fucking idiot_.  But moping around wasn't going to solve anything, not really.  And Sammy had said he wanted pie for dessert.

It was warm in the kitchen - pleasantly so, especially since it was chilly for November outside.  Dean hummed to himself as he threw together a pastry crust and peeled apples, enjoying the mindless peace of the moment.  It was a recipe he didn’t have to think much about, since he’d been making it (or helping to make it) since he was about three years old.  The crust went into the refrigerator to chill, the apples were chopped, the brown sugar, white sugar, flour, butter, vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg were heated on top of the stove, the oven was pre-heated -

And the lights flickered out.

*** * ***

It was too easy to burst straight into the Mayor’s office.  Dean had a nasty little idea that there was an appointment for him blocked out on the man’s calendar.  _12:30-1:30 - Torment Dean Winchester._

He’d seen Mayor Adler before, in news broadcasts and on campaign posters, but until now, the closest he’d ever been had been the explosive press conference the man had given the day before.  Now he was sitting across the desk from him, struggling not to pull a grimace at Adler’s smarmy expression, and feeling very much as though he’d have to take a shower to wash his presence off afterwards.

“So unfortunate,” Adler cooed through a practiced smile.  “I hate to hear of local businesses like yours struggling.”

“We weren’t _struggling_ ,” Dean retorted, “until you signed a work order that took out the power on the whole block.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do,” Adler said, sitting back in his soft leather office chair.  “Every step of the process has been documented.  I have made sure that you received proper notification before each step was taken.”

“Oh, I found your ‘notifications’.  Someone had been slipping them under the front door mat.”

“Can’t find good help these days,” Adler mused absently, and Dean might have even bought it if it wasn’t for the malicious glint in the man’s eye.  “Dean.  I understand that you’re determined, and honestly, I respect the hell out of you for that quality.  It’s one I like to think I have myself.  But you’ve got to be ready to face reality.  Who knows how long construction’s going to last?  Can your business survive on so few customers?  I can already tell you that electricity’s gonna be spotty at best in your neighborhood for the foreseeable future.  And - ” he leaned forward, conspiratorial, “- a little birdie told me that your kitchen has sprung a few dangerous _gas leaks._ ”

Dean’s eyes narrowed.  He’d suspected - yeah, of course he had, he wasn’t a total moron - but to hear the quiet threat in the Mayor’s voice was something else.  “Look, your Mayor-ship, or whatever, I don’t have time to mess around with your little games.  You’ve been sending Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dumber my way for the better part of three months now, and my answer ain’t gonna change.  You can take your development deal and you can stick it up your ass.”

“I don’t appreciate being spoken to in that tone.”  Any trace of affability had vanished and Adler was sitting bolt-upright, spine as straight as a yardstick.

“I don’t appreciate any of this,” Dean shot back, pushing himself to his feet.  “I came here to see if maybe you weren’t as big of an asshole as I thought and hey, guess what, you are.  You’re so desperate to buy a coffee shop, try Beans and Rice across town - I know Benny’s been looking to sell for a while.  But since I think that ain’t what this is about, you’re shit outta luck ‘cuz I’m not selling.”

Adler looked calmly up at him.  “You know,” he said, “I’ve always found that a ‘no’ is just a jumping-off point for further investigations.”

“This ‘no’ isn’t.”

The man just laughed lowly.  “Just means that I haven’t found the right leverage yet.”  He turned his attention to a stack of paperwork near his elbow, as his words spilled ice water through Dean’s veins.  “Have a lovely day,” Adler told him without looking up.  Almost mechanically, Dean turned towards the door, reaching for the handle -

“And pay my respects to your mother, would you?”

The door nearly shook off his hinges as Dean slammed it behind him.

He stood in the hallway for a long time, going back and forth between pushing back into Adler’s office and slugging the man in the face, and not getting his ass carted off to jail.  On the one hand, going after Adler would feel amazing.  On the other, he still had to finish that pie for Sammy.

It was a tough decision.

“Who shit in your pudding, buddy?”

Dean glanced up - then back down a bit.  The speaker was a man, shorter than him, with brown hair on the longer side and a lollipop stick dragging at his bottom lip.  He quirked an eyebrow up at Dean.

“What?”

“Your face.  Who died?”

This was not a conversation Dean needed to have.  “Bye,” he said, pushing past the man and marching down the hallway towards the building exit.

“Whoa, whoa - ”  The man was keeping step with him, for no reason Dean could think of.  “Slow down there, Chuckles.”

“Dude,” Dean said, shooting a glare at the man.  “What do you want?”

“Your undying friendship,” the other man deadpanned.  When Dean scoffed, his face burst into a mischievous smile.  “Alright, yeah, okay.  I want you to pass along a message.”

That brought Dean up short.  “Who the hell are you, man?”

“You can call me Gabriel.”  Despite his smile, his eyes were serious.  “We’ve got a mutual friend - Castiel.”

“Cas never mentioned you.”

“‘Cuz he’s such a chatterbox, right?  Anyway, shut up for a second and just tell him - two weeks.”

A pause - Dean waited for the rest of the message.  “That’s it?”

“Sorry for the blue-balls, babe, but that isn’t for you.  Two weeks, got it?”

“Whatever, man.”  Dean waved Gabriel off, moving past him once again.

The grip that wrapped around his forearm was strong as iron, and twice as immovable.  Gabriel was much, much stronger than he looked.  “And - ” the smaller man stopped himself for a moment before the words stumbled out of his mouth.  “Tell him - I’m sorry, okay?  Sorry.”

And with a definite nod, Gabriel turned on his heel and strode away.

*** * ***

“Pie’s okay.”

Dean snorted, flopping back on the picnic blanket.  This late in the fall, the sun was setting early, and the stars were already starting to make their grand entrances overhead.  He shivered slightly, making sure his jacket was zipped up to his neck, and tucked the hand-knitted green scar tighter around his throat.

“Uncle Dean’s pie is the best!”  Dean’s tiny knight in shining armor launched herself at her father, climbing into his lap.  “It’s alway the best, Daddy.”

“Daddy is just being a jerk,” Jess observed.  She was lying on her back too, belly full of dinner and dessert and eyes warm as she looked at her husband and daughter.

“You’re a jerk, Daddy,” Mary informed her father gravely.

“Great,” Sam said, turning an accusatory glare at Dean.  “Look what you did.”

“She’s just learning what the rest of us already know, Sammy.”

Chuckling, Sam wrapped his arms around his daughter and leaned back, resting against the slab of granite behind him.  Dean didn’t need to see through him to know what the stone’s engraving said - he’d had it memorized since he was four years old.  

MARY WINCHESTER  
DECEMBER 5, 1954 - NOVEMBER 2, 1983  
MAY ANGELS WATCH OVER HER

It was kind of a fucked-up tradition, maybe, to come have a picnic on Mom’s grave every year on the anniversary of her death, but Dean had never felt all that gross about it.  It was his way - and Sam’s - of checking in on her, including her in the family, even after she was gone.  And since little Mary had never met her namesake, it had felt kinda… _important_ to make sure she came along as well.

So every year, Dean baked his Mom’s famous apple pie recipe and Sam brought some beer and some food and they spent a few hours in the local graveyard.  And if they got a few strange looks… well those people could go fuck themselves, for all Dean cared.

“Bela Talbot said she saw you down at City Hall today.”

Jess’s voice was carefully neutral - she kept her eyes fixed on the sky ahead.  But nothing could have kept Sam from bolting forward, nearly upending his daughter in the process.  “What?”

Dean sighed.  This should not have been a surprise.  ADA Talbot was both a ruthless gossip (when it suited her interests) and Jess’s boss, and she had it out for both the Winchester men for reasons unknown to Dean.  “I was down there this afternoon,” he said carefully.

“Dean…”

“I had a meeting with Mayor Adler, alright?” Dean snapped, pushing up on his elbows.  “You know how he’s been harassing me and Charlie, right?  This was just - I’m trying to get it all dealt with.”

“Did you _meet with_ Adler, or did you _insult_ Adler?” Jess asked.  Dean stuck his tongue out at her.

“A little of both.”

Sam’s head _thunked_ back against Mom’s gravestone.  “Dean.”

“He deserved it, Sammy!  After all the shi - all the bad things he’s done to us recently?”  Dean shot Mary a cautious sidelong glance.  She was watching the exchange with avid interest, little head turning from him, to her mother, to her father, and back again.

“He’s a powerful guy,” Sam told him.  “You gotta just… be careful.  I don’t know how far he’d go to get people out of his way.”

_I do,_ thought Dean, images of gas leaks flooding his mind.  “I’m not gonna haul off and punch the guy, Sammy,” he said.  “But I really, really want to.”

His brother’s bitchface was a sight to behold, but even Sam had to crack a little at the dual giggles from Jess and Mary.  Mary’s laughter broke off in a yawn at the end, and Sam hugged his daughter closer.

It seemed colder after Sam and his family left, though Dean knew the temperature hadn’t dropped that drastically.  He shivered again and wrapped the picnic blanket around his shoulders, leaning back against his mother’s headstone with his eyes closed.  

“Don’t do anything stupid, Dean,” Sam had whispered to him as he’d hugged him goodnight.  Dean had responded with a hard pinch to Sam’s arm, which was his brotherly prerogative.  But now, without the warm buffer of his family’s presence, the night air seemed much colder than it had any right to.  Dean wrapped the picnic blanket around his shoulders, leaned back against his mother’s headstone, and closed his eyes.

“I’m losing it here, Mom.”

He almost didn’t recognize his own voice.  He certainly hadn’t meant to speak those words out loud.  

“I’ve got Crowley and Raphael up my ass almost every day now.  The Mayor’s a piece of shit, but I can’t touch him without getting my hands ripped off.  Charlie’s acting weird and I just don’t know - ”

He broke off, breathing heavily.  There were tears threatening at the corners of his eyes.  He squeezed his eyelids tightly closed, willing the tears away.

“The Supers, too,” he continued, once he had a grip again.  “I met the Archangel.  He seemed like a real toolbag.  Nobody’s got teeth that shiny in real life.”  He paused a second, considering.  “I think he was hitting on me?  I dunno.  It was a weird moment.  And now there’s another guy running around - a third guy.  Sammy’s friends at the paper are calling him the Fallen, which seems like a stupid name.  Cas thinks so too - Cas is a friend of mine, he’s…”

But there was no way to describe Cas - at least, no way Dean would want to describe Cas to his mother.  Cas was impossible to define - he seemed to blur at the edges in Dean’s mind, like a puzzle with some of the pieces missing. 

“… he’s working at the cafe with me and Charlie,” Dean settled for.  “Good guy.  Nice.  Funny.”  He caught himself before he could over-adjective.  “But the Fallen - I dunno.  I think he saved my life, but I was kind of dying of carbon monoxide poisoning at the time, so.”  He shot a glance at the headstone over his shoulder.  If he concentrated, he could easily imagine his mother, long blonde hair and kind blue eyes, accusatory glare directed at him.  “I’m fine now!” he protested to the vision of Mary Winchester.  “And it totally wasn’t my fault.  And anyway, some Super saved my ass which, I dunno… I’m happy he did it, but…”

“Jury’s still out.”

Dean’s eyes snapped open.

The Fallen was standing in front of him.  With his trench coat flapping in the November breeze and the moon at his back, he was fucking impressive.  Dean scooted back against the gravestone, frowning up on him.

“Jesus, man!” he snapped.  “I’m having a moment here, okay?”

“My apologies.”  The Fallen inclined his head, and Dean had the weirdest feeling that he was being sincere.  “I did not mean to intrude.”

There was a long moment as the two men just looked at one another.  Dean wished he could see the other man’s face - not so he could know The Fallen’s identity, but more so he’d be able to see the expression he wore.  

“You saved my life,” Dean finally said flatly.

“Yes.”

“‘Kay.  Thanks for that.”

“You are welcome.”  
There was something familiar in the way the man spoke - something that itched at the back of Dean’s brain, too faintly to be useful in putting any kind of pieces together.  “Why, uh.”  Dean licked his lips, which had gone dry.  “Why are you here now?”

“You were being watched.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorted.  “I can see that.”

“No, Dean,” The Fallen said, so exasperated that Dean couldn’t help cracking a smile.  “By some men sent by Mayor Adler.  They were waiting for your family to leave before moving in.”

Dean pushed himself to his feet, scanning the darkness.  “Thanks for the heads up, man,” he said.  “I can take a couple’a guys.”

“No need.”  The Fallen sounded almost apologetic.  “I have ‘taken’ them for you.”  He pointed with a gloved hand.  “They are beyond the far gate.  I have tied them up, and the police are on their way now.  I felt that it would be better not to take chances with your well-being.”

“You seem awful concerned with my 'well-being' for a Super,” Dean observed.  “Aren’t you guys supposed to be all high-and-mighty and shit?  All wrapped up in your issues with each other?”

“I want to help people,” The Fallen said quietly.  “That is all I have ever wanted to do.”

There wasn’t much Dean could say to that except, “Okay, then.”  He fought the unprompted urge to clap the man on the shoulder.

“You are in danger, Dean,” said The Fallen, his voice still soft.  “You do not realize how much.”

“Seeing as you’ve saved my ass twice in the last few weeks alone, I’d say I kinda do.”

“No.”  The Fallen shook his head.  “The Mayor has you in his sights.  If you continue to resist him…”

“I ain’t selling to him, if that’s what you’re talking about.  That cafe is all I have.”

“It isn’t.”  The certainty in the other man’s tone was verging on shocking, and Dean stared sharply at him.  “You have your life and you have your family - you have people who care about you.”  He cocked his head, birdlike.  “You have the ability to touch the hearts of others, and you don’t even realize it.  You have many things.  If you throw them away out of stubbornness, I - people will be very annoyed with you.”

That slip-up.  _“I”._ The familiarity digging at him kicked up a notch.

“I promise to do my best to not die,” Dean said sardonically.  

“Then that’s the best I can ask for,” The Fallen replied, and if Dean could have seen his face, he though the man might have been smiling.  "Good night, Dean."

"You're leaving?"  _Go ahead, Dean, sound a little more whiney._

"I will see you soon."  And damn if that didn't sound like a promise the man intended to keep.

The Fallen must have gone to the Fergus Crowley School of Disappearance, because it seemed like one moment he was there, and the next he had vanished into thin air.  Dean let out a _whoosh_ of breath he hadn't realized he was holding.  He turned an exasperated shrug back to his mother's gravestone.

"See what I fucking mean?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why not start things off with porn? There's been too much punchy-stabby action and not enough sexy action so far.
> 
> [Tumblr here](http://mo1st-von-lipwig.tumblr.com/), if you're so inclined.


End file.
